. <L Saul Collection
IRincteentb Century
literature
purchases in part
through a contribution to the
Xibran? jfunSs maDe bi? the
Department of Bullish in
Tantx>ereit^ College,
HALF-HOURS
WITH
THE BEST AUTHORS.
VOL. I.
POPE _ SWIFT .
ADOISON DEFOE STEELE
BARROW _ BERKELEY.
HALF-HOURS
WITH
THE BEST AUTHORS.
INCLUDING BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES,
BY CHARLES KNIGHT. ,
WITH FIFTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM HARVEY.
REMODELLED AND REVISED BY THE ORIGINAL EDITOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.,
BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1866.
Ki
Hit
v.\
ADVERTISEMENT.
IN this Edition, the whole of the text has been revised
and remodelled by its original Editor, and selections
from authors added, whose works have placed them
amongst -the best authors" since the publication of
the First Edition.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
i. A Good Man's Day ........ BISHOP HALL . i
2. The Influence of Science on the Wellbeing and Progress of ) TT
Society ....... . . . | WERSCHEL .
3. The Piteous Death of the Son of Gaston de Foix . . FROISSART . . 12
4. Old Dramatic Poets ........ MASSINGER . . 20
6. A Tale of Terror ......... COURIER . . 37
7. The Opening Year ........ VARIOUS . . 39
8. St Paul at Athens ........ MILMAN . . 43
9. Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey ..... LANDOR . . 47
10. Dejection : an Ode ........ COLERIDGE . . 51
11. Apophthegms. — I. . ..... . VARIOUS . . 57
«. The Candid Man ..... .... j SiRE. BuLWERLYT-J fi6
13. Sir Roger de Coverley. — I. ...... ADDISON . . 73
14. The Barometer ......... ARNOTT ... 85
15. Sunday ........... HERBERT . . 91
16. The History of Perkin Warbeck ..... BACON ... 93
17. The Ancient Mansion ........ CRABBE . . . 108
18. The Spider and the Bee ....... SWIFT . . .no
19. Of the Jealousy of Trade ....... DAVID HUME . 113
20. A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars in the Metropolis . C. LAMB . . 117
21. The First Man ......... BUFFON . . . 126
22. Nature's Law ......... HOOKER . . 130
23. The Good Lord Clifford ....... WORDSWORTH . 135
24. Struggling with Adversity ....... BASIL HALL . . 140
25. Omens ........... DAVY . . . 144
26. The Present Age ......... CHANNING . . 148
27. Classical Education ........ ARNOLD . . . 153
28. Sir Alexander Ball ........ COLERIDGE . . 157
29. The Measures and Offices of Friendship .... JEREMY TAYLOR . 168
30. The British Hirundines . ...... GILBERT WHITE . 177
31. The Voluble Lady ........ JANE AUSTEN . 189
32. May ........... VARIOUS . . 193
33. Progress of the Mechanical Arts ..... DANIEL WEBSTER 197
34. Decision of Character ........ JOHN FOSTER . 202
35. The Dream of Eugene Aram ...... HOOD . . . 208
36. The Strange Contrarieties Discoverable in Human Nature PASCAL . . . 211
37. Account of the Great Fire of London ..... EVELYN . . .218
38. The Red Fisherman ........ PRAED ... 224
39. Sir Roger de Coverley. — II. ...... ADDISON . . 228
40. Ballads ..... ..... VARIOUS . . 239
41. An Irish Village ......... CARLETON . . 243
Vlii CONTENTS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
42. The Rising of the Waters GALT . . .248
43. Religious Knowledge ROBERT HALL . 252
44. Apophthegms.— II VARIOUS . . 260
45. The Koran G. CAMPBELL . 268
46. Dr Johnson and his Times MACAULAY . . 272
47. Imitation of Horace POPE . . . 281
48. Criticism on Don Quixote HALLAM . . 287
49. Character of James Watt JEFFREY . . 293
50. Upon the Government of the Tongue BUTLER . . . 298
51. Giffbrd's Account of his Early Days GlFFORD . . . 304
52. The Story of Richard Plantagenet BRETT . . . 314
53. The Old and the Young Courtier ANONYMOUS . . 317
54. The Modern Dramatic Poets. — I. ..... JOANNA BAILLIE . 320
55. Hogarth CHARLES LAMB . 329
56. Of the Inconvenience of Greatness MONTAIGNE . . 333
57. The Faithful Minister THOMAS FULLER . 338
58. Flowers VARIOUS . . 345
59. Instinct GREEN . . . 354
60. Death of Caesar PLUTARCH . . 360
61. The Young Geologist HUGH MILLER . 369
62. The Schoolmaster VERPLANCK . . 378
63. Apophthegms. — III VARIOUS . . 381
64. The Imitation of Christ BISHOP BEVERIDGE 384
65. Sir Roger de Coverley. — III ADDISON . . 392
66. Work . CARLYLE . . 397
67. Scenes from " The Alchemist " BEN JONSON . . 403
68. The Fall of the Marquis of Montrose ..... CLARENDON . . 411
69. Bunyan T. B. MACAULAY . 420
70. The Duel DICKENS . . 424
71. The Sermon of the Plough LATIMER . . 435
72. Authors of a Century Ago SMOLLETT . . 441
73. Birds VARIOUS . . 451
74. Poor Richard DR FRANKLIN . 459
75. Of Great Place BACON . . .467
76. Civilisation GUIZOT . . . 470
77. The Pied Piper of Hamclin BROWNING . . 476
78. To all Readers BISHOP HALL . 486
79. Sir Dudley North ROGER NORTH . 488
80. Adventure in a Forest SMOLLETT . . 494
81. Scene from Old Fortunatus DEKKER . . 501
82. The Best English People THACKERAY . . 504
83. Death of Cardinal Wolsey CAVENDISH . . 511
84. What is Poetry? LEIGH HUNT . 516
85. The Industry of a Gentleman BARROW . . 522
86. The Progress of the Great Plague of London . . . PEPYS .' . . 531
87. The May Queen TENNYSON . 539
88. The Old English Admiral E. H. LOCKER . 545
89. The Nut-Brown Maid ANONYMOUS . . 554
90. Sir Roger de Coverley.— IV ADDISON . . 560
HALF-HOURS
WITH
THE BEST AUTHORS
l.— |, <S00tr Pan'
BISHOP HALL.
JOSEPH HALL, Bishop of Norwich, was born at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, in
Leicestershire, on the 1st July 1574. He received his academical education at
Emmanuel College, Cambridge. In 1597, he published a volume of Satires,
which gave great offence, but which remain to the student of English poetry
as amongst the most masterly productions of their class. Pope held them to
be the best poetry and the truest satire in the English language. In 1617, he
was preferred to the Deanery of Worcester ; in 1627, was made Bishop of
Exeter; and in 1641, was translated to Norwich. His earnest piety and pro-
fessional zeal rendered him obnoxious to the charge of puritanism, but he was
a vigorous defender of the Church in its times of tribulation and danger, and
was a sufferer for his conscientious opinions. The revenues of his bishopric
were sequestrated in 1642, and he spent the remainder of his life in great
poverty, residing at Higham, near Norwich, where he died in 1656. His
theological works are very numerous ; and though many of them are contro-
versial, others will remain as durable monuments of masterly reasoning,
eloquent persuasion, and touching devotion. The piece which we first select,
as an opening to the Sunday "Half-Hours," is from an Epistle to Lord
Denny.]
VOL. I. A
2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [Bisnor HALL.
Every day is a little life: and our whole life is but a day re-
peated : whence it is that old Jacob numbers his life by days .;
and Moses desires to be taught this point of holy arithmetic, to
number not his years, but his days. Those, therefore, that dare
lose a day, are dangerously prodigal ; those that dare misspend
it, desperate. We can best teach others by ourselves ; let me tell
your lordship how I would pass my days, whether common or
sacred, that you, (or whosoever others, overhearing me,) may
either approve my thriftiness, or correct my errors : to whom is
the account of my hours either more due, or more known. All
days are His who gave time a beginning and continuance ; yet
some He hath made ours, not to command, but to use.
In none may we forget Him ; in some we must forget all be-
sides Him. First, therefore, I desire to awake at those hours, not
when I will, but when I must ; pleasure is not a fit rule for rest,
but health ; neither do I consult so much with the sun, as mine
own necessity, whether of body or in that of the mind. If this
vassal could well serve me waking, it should never sleep ; but now
it must be pleased, that it may be serviceable. Now when sleep
is rather driven away than leaves me, I would ever awake with
God ; my first thoughts are for Him who hath made the night
for rest and the day for travel ; and as He gives, so blesses both.
If my heart be early seasoned with His presence, it will savour of
Him all day after. While my body is dressing, not with an
effeminate curiosity, nor yet with rude neglect, my mind addresses
itself to her ensuing task, bethinking what is to be done, and in
what order, and marshalling (as it may) my hours with my work ;
that done, after some while's meditation, I walk up to my masters
and companions, my books, and sitting down amongst them with
the best contentment, I dare not reach forth my hand to salute
any of them, till I have first looked up to heaven, and craved
favour of Him to whom all my studies are duly referred : without
whom I can neither profit nor labour. After this, out of no over
great variety, I call forth those which may best fit my occasions,
wherein I am not too scrupulous of age. Sometimes I put my-
self to school to one of those ancients whom the Church hath
BISHOP HALL.] A GOOD MAN'S DAY. 3
honoured with the name of Fathers, whose volumes I confess not
to open without a secret reverence of their holiness and gravity ;
sometimes to those later doctors, which want nothing but age to
make them classical ; always to God's Book. That day is lost
whereof some hours are not improved in those divine monuments :
others I turn over out of choice ; these out of duty. Ere I can
have sat unto weariness, my family, having now overcome all
household distractions, invites me to our common devotions : not
without some short preparation. These, heartily performed, send
me up with a more strong and cheerful appetite to my former
work, which I find made easy to me by intermission and variety ;
now, therefore, can 1 deceive the hours with change of pleasures,
that is, of labours. One while mine eyes are busied, another while
my hand, and sometimes my mind takes the burthen from them
both ; wherein I would imitate the skilfullest cooks, which make
the best dishes with manifold mixtures ; one hour is spent in tex-
tual divinity, another in controversy ; histories relieve them both.
Now, when the mind is weary of others' labours, it begins to
undertake her own ; sometimes it meditates and winds up for
future use ; sometimes it lays forth her conceits into present dis-
course ; sometimes for itself, after for others. Neither know I
whether it works or plays in these thoughts : I am sure no sport
hath more pleasure, no work more use ; only the decay of a weak
body makes me think these delights insensibly laborious. Thus
could I all day (as ringers use) make myself music with changes,
and complain sooner of the day for shortness than of the business
for toil, were it not that this faint monitor interrupts me still in the
midst of my busy pleasures, and enforces me both to respite and
repast. I must yield to both ; while my body and mind are joined
together in these unequal couples, the better must follow the
weaker. Before my meals, therefore, and after, I let myself loose
from all thoughts, and now would forget that I ever studied ; a
full mind takes away the body's appetite, no less than a full body
makes a dull and unwieldy mind : company, discourse, recrea-
tions, are now seasonable and welcome ; these prepare me for a
diet, not gluttonous, but medicinal. The palate may not be pleased,
4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP HALL.
but the stomach, nor that for its own sake ; neither would I think
any of these comforts worth respect in themselves but in their
use, in their end, so far as they may enable me to better things.
If I see any dish to tempt my palate, I fear a serpent in that apple,
and would please myself in a wilful denial ; I rise capable of more,
not desirous ; not now immediately from my trencher to my book,
but after some intermission. Moderate speed is a sure help to all
proceedings ; where those things which are prosecuted with vio-
lence of endeavour or desire, either succeed not or continue not.
After my later meal, my thoughts are slight ; only my memory
may be charged with her task of recalling what was committed to
her custody in the day ; and my heart is busy in examining my
hands and mouth, and all other senses, of that day's behaviour.
And now the evening is come, no tradesman doth more carefully
take in his wares, clear his shopboard, and shut his window, than
I would shut up my thoughts and clear my mind. That student
shall live miserably, which like a camel lies down under his burden.
All this done, calling together my family, we end the day with
God : thus do we rather drive away the time before us than follow
it. I grant neither is my practice worthy to be exemplary, neither
are our callings proportionable. The lives of a nobleman, of a
courtier, of a scholar, of a citizen, of a countryman, differ no less
than their dispositions ; yet must all conspire in honest labour.
Sweat is the destiny of all trades, whether of the brows or of
the mind. God never allowed any man to do nothing. How
miserable is the condition of those men which spend the time as
if it were given them, and not lent ; as if hours were waste crea-
tures, and such as should never be accounted for; as if God
would take this for a good bill of reckoning : Item, spent upon
my pleasures forty years ! These men shall once find that no
blood can privilege idleness, and that nothing is more precious to
God than that which they desire to cast away — time. Such are
my common days ; but God's day calls for another respect. The
same sun arises on this day, and enlightens it ; yet because that
Sun of Righteousness arose upon it, and gave a new life unto the
world in it, and drew the strength of God's moral precept unto it,
BISHOP HALT-] A GOOD MAN'S DAY. 5
therefore justly do we sing with the Psalmist, " This is the day
which the Lord hath made." Now I forget the world, and in a
sort myself; and deal with my wonted thoughts, as great men
use, who, at some times of their privacy, forbid the access of all
suitors. Prayer, meditation, reading, hearing, preaching, singing,
good conference, are the businesses of this day, which I dare not
bestow on -any work, or pleasure, but heavenly.
I hate superstition on the one side, and looseness on the other ;
but I find it hard to offend in too much devotion, easy in profane-
ness. The whole week is sanctified by this day ; and according
to my care of this is my blessing on the rest. I show your lord-
ship what I would do, and what I ought ; I commit my desires to
the imitation of the weak, my actions to the censures of the wise
and holy, my weaknesses to the pardon and redress of my merciful
God.
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HERSCHEL.
2. — &{xe Jf tifhimte 0f Srimte 0tt % WitBbtmg atttr
0f j?0deirL
HERSCHEL.
[Sm JOHN HERSCHEL, the author of a " Discourse on the Study of Natural
Philosophy," (forming a volume of Lardner's Cyclopaedia,) from which the fol-
lowing " Half-Hour" is extracted, stands at the head of the men of science of
our own times. This is not the place to enlarge upon his eminent merits as a
philosopher. He received from the government of Queen Victoria the same
tribute which Sir Isaac Newton received from the government of Queen Anne.
In 1850, when the office of Master of the Mint was converted from a minis-
terial into a permanent one, it was conferred upon Sir John Herschel ; and this
office was detained by him till 1855, when he resigned it on account of ill-
health, and Professor Graham, the eminent chemist, was appointed his succes-
sor. Sir John Herschel claims especial regard from us, and from our readers,
as being amongst the ablest and most generous of advocates for the Diffusion of
Knowledge. We cannot forbear the pleasure of quoting a beautiful passage
from an "Address to the Subscribers to the Windsor and Eton Public Library,"
delivered by him in 1833 — a period when many eminent men believed, or
affected to believe, that the people might be over-instructed. We give this as
a fit introduction to a course of general reading, not selected for a class — not
diluted or mangled in the belief that the great body of readers have depraved
intellectual appetites and weak digestions — but taken from the best and the
highest works in all literature — gems from the rich treasury of instruction and
amusement which the master-minds of the world, and especially of our own
nation, have heaped up for an exhaustless and imperishable store : —
" If I were to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every
variety of circumstances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me
through life, and a shield against its ills, however things might go amiss, and
the wo-ld frown upon me, it would be a taste for reading. I speak of it of
course only as a worldly advantage, and not in the slightest degree as super-
seding or derogating from the higher office and surer and stronger panoply of
HERSCHEL.] THE INFLUENCE OF SCIENCE, ETC. 7
religious principles — but as a taste, an instrument, and a mode of pleasurable
gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means of gratifying it, and you
can hardly fail of making a happy man, unless, indeed, you put into his hands
a most perverse selection of books. You place him in contact with the best
society in every period of history — with the wisest, the wittiest — with the ten-
derest, the bravest, and the purest characters that have adorned humanity.
You make him a denizen of all nations — a contemporary of all ages. The world
has been created for him. It is hardly possible but the character should take
a higher and better tone from the constant habit of associating in thought with
a class of thinkers, to say the least of it, above the average of humanity. It is
morally impossible but that the manners should take a tinge of good breeding
and civilisation from having constantly before one's eyes the way in which the
best-bred and the best-informed men have talked and conducted themselves in
their intercourse with each other. There is a gentle but perfectly irresistible
coercion in a habit of reading, well-directed, over the whole tenor of a man's
character and conduct, which is not the less effectual because it works insen-
sibly, and because it is really the last thing he dreams of. It cannot, in short,
be better summed up than in the words of the Latin poet —
' Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros.'
It civilises the conduct of men — and siiffers them not to remain barbarous."
The difference of the degrees in which the individuals of a great
community enjoy the good things of life has been a theme of de-
clamation and discontent in all ages ; and it is doubtless our para
mount duty, in every state of society, to alleviate the pressure of
the purely evil part of this distribution as much as possible, and,
by all the means we can devise, secure the lower links in the chain
of society from dra00mg in dishonour and wretchedness : but
there is a point of view in which the picture is at least materially
altered in its expression. In comparing society on its present
immense scale, with its infant or less developed state, we must
at least take care to enlarge every feature in the same proportion.
If, on comparing the very lowest states in civilised and savage life,
we admit a difficulty in deciding to which the preference is due, at
least in every superior grade, we cannot hesitate a moment ; and if
we institute a similar comparison in every different stage of its pro-
gress, we cannot fail to be struck with the rapid rate of dilatation
which every degree upward of the scale, so to speak, exhibits, and
which, in an estimate of averages, gives an immense preponder-
ance to the present over every former condition of mankind, and,
for aught we can see to the contrary, will place succeeding genera-
8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HERSCHEL.
tions in the same degree of superior relation to the present that this
holds to those passed away. Or we may put the same proposition
in other words, and, admitting the existence of every inferior grade
of advantage in a higher state of civilisation which subsisted in
the preceding, we shall find, first, that, taking state for state, the
proportional numbers of those who enjoy the higher degrees of ad-
vantage increases with a constantly-accelerated rapidity as society
advances ; and, secondly, that the superior extremity of the scale
is constantly enlarging by the addition of new degrees. The con-
dition of a European prince is now as far superior, in the com-
mand of real comforts and conveniences, to that of one in the
middle ages, as that to the condition of one of his own dependants.
The advantages conferred by the augmentation of our physical
resources through the medium of increased knowledge and im-
proved art have this peculiar and remarkable property — that they
are in their nature diffusive, and cannot be enjoyed in any exclu-
sive manner by a few. An Eastern despot may extort the riches
and monopolise the art of his subjects for his own personal use;
he may spread around him an unnatural splendour and luxury, and
stand in strange and preposterous contrast with the general penury
and discomfort of his people; he may glitter in jewels of gold and
raiment of needlework ; but the wonders of well contrived and
executed manufacture which we use daily, and the comforts which
have been invented, tried, and improved upon by thousands, in
every form of domestic convenience, and for every ordinary pur-
pose of life, can never be enjoyed by him. To produce a state
of things in which the physical advantages of civilised life can
exist in a high degree, the stimulus of increasing comforts and
constantly-elevated desires must have been felt by millions ; since
it is not in the power of a few individuals to create that wide de-
mand for useful and ingenious applications, which alone can lead
to great and rapid improvements, unless backed by that arising
from the speedy diffusion of the same advantages among the mass
of mankind.
If tnis be true of physical advantages, it applies with still greater
force to intellectual. Knowledge can neither be adequately cul-
HERSCHKL.! THE INFLUENCE OF SCIENCE, ETC. 9
tivated nor adequately enjoyed by a few ; and although the con-
ditions of our existence on earth may be such as to preclude an
abundant supply of the physical necessities of all who may be
born, there is no such law of nature in force against that of our
intellectual and moral wants. Knowledge is not, like food, de-
stroyed by use, but rather augmented and perfected. It requires
not, perhaps, a greater certainty, but at least a confirmed authority
and a probable duration, by universal assent ; and there is no
body of knowledge so complete but that it may acquire accession,
or so free from error but that it may receive correction in passing
through the minds of millions. Those who admire and love
knowledge for its own sake, ought to wish to see its elements made
accessible to all, were it only that they may be the more thoroughly
examined into, and more effectually developed in their conse-
quences, and receive that ductility and plastic quality which the
pressure of minds of all descriptions, constantly moulding them to
their purposes, can alone bestow. But to this end it is necessary
that it should be divested, as far as possible, of artificial difficul-
ties, and stripped of all such technicalities as tend to place it in
the light of a craft and a mystery, inaccessible without a kind of
apprenticeship. Science, of course, like everything else, has its own
peculiar terms, and, so to speak, its idioms of language ; and these
it would be unwise, were it even possible, to relinquish : but
everything that tends to clothe it in a strange and repulsive garb,
and especially everything that, to keep up an appearance of supe-
riority in its professors over the rest of mankind, assumes an un-
necessary guise of profundity and obscurity, should be sacrificed
without mercy. Not to do this is deliberately to reject the light
which the natural unencumbered good sense of mankind is cap-
able of throwing on every subject, even in the elucidation of
principles ; but where principles are to be applied to practical
uses, it becomes absolutely necessary ; as all mankind have then
an interest in their being so familiarly understood, that no mistakes
shall arise in their application.
The same remark applies to arts. They cannot be perfected
till their whole processes are laid open, and their language sim-
10 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HERSCHEL.
plified and rendered universally intelligible. Art is the applica-
tion of knowledge to a practical end. If the knowledge be merely
accumulated experience, the art is empirical; but if it be experi-
ence reasoned upon and brought under general principles, it
assumes a higher character, and becomes a scientific art. In the
progress of mankind from barbarism to civilised life, the arts
necessarily precede science. The wants and cravings of our
animal constitution must be satisfied ; the comforts and some of
the luxuries of life must exist. Something must be given to the
vanity of show, and more to the pride of power ; the round of
baser pleasures must have been tried and found insufficient before
intellectual ones can gain a footing ; and when they have obtained
it, the delights of poetry and its sister arts still take precedence
of contemplative enjoyments, and the severer pursuits of thought;
and when these in time begin to charm from their novelty, and
sciences begin to arise, they will at first be those of pure specula-
tion. The mind delights to escape from the trammels which had
bound it to earth, and luxuriates in its newly-found powers.
Hence, the abstractions of geometry — the properties of numbers
— the movements of the celestial spheres — whatever is abstruse,
remote, and extramundane — become the first objects of infant
science. Applications come late : the arts continue slowly pro-
gressive, but their realm remains separated from that of science
by a wide gulf which can only be passed by a powerful spring.
They form their own language and their own conventions, which
none but artists can understand. The whole tendency of em-
pirical art is to bury itself in technicalities, and to place its pride
in particular short cuts and mysteries known only to adepts ; to
surprise and astonish by results, but conceal processes. The
character of science is the direct contrary. It delights to lay
itself open to inquiry ; and is not satisfied with its conclusions
till it can make the road to them broad and beaten : and in its
applications it preserves the same character ; its whole aim being
to strip away all technical mystery, to illuminate every dark recess,
with a view to improve them on rational principles. It would
seem that a union of two qualities almost opposite to each other
HERSCHHL/J THE INFLUENCE OF SCIENCE, ETC. II
— a going forth of the thoughts in two directions, and a sudden
transfer of ideas from a remote station in one to an equally dis-
tant one in the other — is required to start the first idea of apply-
ing science. Among the Greeks this point was attained by Archi-
medes, but attained too late, on the eve of that great eclipse of
science which was destined to continue for nearly eighteen cen-
turies, till Galileo in Italy, and Bacon in England, at once dis-
pelled the darkness : the one by his inventions and discoveries ;
the other by the irresistible force of his arguments and eloquence.
Finally, the improvement effected in the condition of mankind
by advances in physical science as applied to the useful purposes
of life, is very far from being limited to their direct consequences
in the more abundant sypply of their physical wants, and the in-
crease of our comforts. Great as these benefits are, they are yet
but steps to others of a still higher kind. The successful results
of our experiments and reasonings in natural philosophy, and the
incalculable advantages which experience, systematically consulted
and dispassionately reasoned on, has conferred in matters purely
physical, tend of necessity to impress something of the well'
weighed and progressive character of science on the more com-
plicated conduct of our social and moral relations. It is thus
that legislation and politics become gradually regarded as experi-
mental sciences, and L^cory, not, as formerly, the mere record of
tyrannies and slaughters, which, by immortalising the execrable
actions of one age, perpetuates the ambition of committing them
in every succeeding one, but as the archive of experiments, suc-
cessful and unsuccessful, gradually accumulating towards the
solution of the grand problem — how the advantages of govern-
ment are to be secured with the least possible inconvenience to
the governed. The celebrated apophthegm, that nations never
profit by experience, becomes yearly more and more untrue.
Political economy, at least, is found to have sound principles,
founded in the moral and physical nature of man, which, how-
ever lost sight of in particular measures — however even tem-
porarily controverted and borne down by clamour — have yet a
stronger and stronger testimony borne to them in each succeed-
12 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FROISSART.
ing generation, by which they must, sooner or later, prevail. The
idea once conceived and verified, that great and noble ends are
to be achieved, by which the condition of the whole human species
shall be permanently bettered, by bringing into exercise a suffi-
cient quantity of sober thoughts, and by a proper adaptation of
means, is of itself sufficient to set us earnestly on reflecting what
ends are truly great and noble, either in themselves, or as con-
ducive to others of a still loftier character ; because we are not
now, as heretofore, hopeless of attaining them. It is not now
equally harmless and insignificant, whether we are right or wrong ;
since we are no longer supinely and helplessly carried down the
stream of events, but feel ourselves capable of buffeting at least
with its waves, and perhaps of riding triumphantly over them :
for why should we despair that the reason which has enabled us
to subdue all nature to our purposes, should (if permitted and
assisted by the providence of God) achieve a far more difficult
conquest? and ultimately find some means of enabling the collec-
tive wisdom of mankind to bear down those obstacles which indi-
vidual short-sightedness, selfishness, and passion, oppose to all
improvements, and by which the highest hopes are continually
blighted, and the fairest prospects marred.
3.— @tjr* fl xtes g*atfr 0f % S0tt of
FROISSART.
[THERE are few who have not heard of JOHN FROISSART, the most graphic
of the old chroniclers. He was born at Valenciennes about 1337, and early
in life was dedicated to the Church. He was scarcely twenty years old when
he began to write a history of the English wars in France, chiefly compiled
from another chronicler. This history he brings down to the battle of Poitiers
in 1356 ; after which period his Chronicle has all the value of contemporary
observation. His opportunities as an observer were very great ; he was in the
confidence of many of the sovereigns and nobles of his time, and was espe-
cially attached to the court of Edward III., being secretary to Queen Philippa.
He closed a life, compounded of travel and ease, of labour and luxury, of
native honesty and courtly arts, about the beginning of the fifteenth century.
FROISSART.] THE PITEOUS DEA TH OF THE SON OF DE FOIX. 13
His description of the manner of life at the Count of Foix's house at Orthes
is one of the most picturesque of his passages ; and a short extract may fitly
introduce the quaint and touching story of the death of his son, which we give
in Lord Berners's old translation: — "At midnight, when he came out of his
chamber into the hall to supper, he had ever before him twelve torches burn-
ing, borne by twelve varlets, standing before his table all supper. They gave a
great light, and the hall was ever full of knights and squires, and many other
tables were dressed to sup who would. There was none should speak to him
at his table, but if he were called. His meat was lightly, wild fowl, the legs
and wings only, and in the day he did eat and drink but little. He had great
pleasure in harmony of instruments ; he could do it right well himself : he
would have songs sung before him. He would gladly see conceits and fan-
tasies at his table, and when he had seen it, then he would send it to the other
tables bravely ; all this I considered and advised. And ere I came to his
court I had been in many courts of kings, dukes, princes, counts, and great
ladies; but I was never in none that so well liked, me. Nor there was none
more rejoiced in deeds of arms than the count did ; there was seen in his hall,
chamber, and court, knights and squires of honour going up and down, and
talking of arms and of amours : all honour there was found, all manner of
tidings of every realm and country there might be heard, for out of every
country there was resort, for the valiantness of this count."
Froissart describes his own intense curiosity to know "howGaston, the
count's son, died ;" but no one would satisfy him. At last, " so much I in-
quired, that an ancient squire, and a notable man, showed the matter to me,"
and began thus : — ]
"True it is," quoth he, "that the Count of Foix and my lady
of Foix, his wife, agrer " not well together, nor have not done of
a long season, and the discord between them was first moved by
the King of Navarre, who was brother to the lady : for the King
of Navarre pledged himself for the Duke Dalbret, whom the
Count of Foix had in prison, for the sum of fifty thousand francs ;
and the Count of Foix, who knew that the King of Navarre was
crafty and malicious, in the beginning would not trust him,
wherewith the Countess of Foix had great displeasure and indig-
nation against the count her husband, and said to him : —
" * Sir, ye repute but small honour in the King of Navarre, my
brother, when ye will not trust him for fifty thousand francs :
though ye have no more of the Armagnacs, nor of the house of
Dalbret, than ye have, it ought to suffice. And also, sir, ye know
well ye should assign out my dower, which amounteth to fifty thou-
14 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
sand francs, which ye should put into the hands of my brother,
the King of Navarre ; wherefore, Sir, ye cannot be evil paid.'
" ' Dame/ quoth he, ' ye say truth ; but if I thought that the
King of Navarre would stop the payment for that cause, the Lord
Dalbret should never have gone out of Orthes, and so I should
have been paid to the last penny ; and since ye desire it, I will
do it ; not for the love of you, but for the love of my son.'
" So by these words, and by the King of Navarre's obligation,
who became debtor to the Count of Foix, the Lord Dalbret was
delivered quit, and became French, and was married in France to
the sister of the Duke of Burbon, and paid at his ease to the King
of Navarre the sum of fifty thousand francs for his ransom, for
the which sum the king was bound to the Count of Foix ; but he
would not send it to the count.
" Then the Count of Foix said to his wife — ' Dame, ye must go
into Navarre to the king your brother, and show him how I am
not well content with him, that he will not send me that he hath
received of mine.'
" The lady answered, how that she was ready to go at his com-
mandment And so she departed, and rode to Pampeluna to the
king, her brother, who received her with much joy. The lady
did her message from point to point.
" Then the king answered — ' Fair lady, the sum of money is
yours. The count should give it for your dower ; it shall never
go out of the realm of Navarre since I have it in possession.'
" ' Ah, Sir,' quoth the lady, ' by this ye shall set great hate be-
tween the count my husband, and you ; and if ye hold your pur-
pose, I dare not return again into the county of Foix, for my hus-
band will slay me. He will say I have deceived him.'
" ' I cannot tell,' quoth the king, ' what ye will do ; either tarry
or depart ; but as for the money I will not depart from it : it
pertaineth to me to keep it for you, but it shall never go out of
Navarre.'
" The countess could have none other answer of the king her
brother, and so she tarried still in Navarre, and durst not return
again. The Count of Foix, when he saw the dealing of the King
FROISSART.J THE PITEOUS DEA TH OF THE SON OF DE FOIX. 15
of Navarre, he began to hate his wife, and was evil content with
her ; howbeit she was in no fault, but that she had not returned
again when she had done her message. But she durst not ; for
she knew well the count, her husband, was cruel where he took
displeasure. Thus the matter standeth.
" The count's son, called Gaston, grew and waxed goodly, and
was married to the daughter of the Count of Armagnac, a fair
lady, sister to the count that now is, the Lord Bertrand of Armag-
nac ; and, by the conjunction of that marriage, there should have
been peace between Foix and Armagnac. The child was a fif-
teen or sixteen years of age, and resembled right well to his
father. On a time he desired to go into Navarre to see his
mother and his uncle, the King of Navarre ; which was in an evil
hour for him and for all his country. When he was come into
Navarre he had there good cheer, and tarried with his mother a
certain space, and then took his leave ; but for all that he could
do, he could not get his mother out of Navarre, to have gone
with him into Foix. For she demanded if the count had com-
manded him to do so, or no ; and he answered, that when he
departed the count spake nothing thereof. Therefore the lady
durst not go thither, but so tarried still.
" Then the child went to Pampeluna to take his leave of the
king his uncle. The khig made him great cheer, and tarried him
there a ten days, and gave to him great gifts, and to his men.
Also the last gift that the king gave him was his death. I shall
show you how.
" When this gentleman should depart, the king drew him apart
into his chamber, and gave him a little purse full of powder, which
powder was such, that if any creature living did eat thereof, he
should incontinent die without remedy. Then the king said,
' Gaston, fair nephew, ye shall do as I shall show to you. Ye
see how the Count of Foix, your father, wrongfully hath your
mother, my sister, in great hate ; whereof I am sore displeased,
and so ought ye to be ; howbeit, to perform all the matter, and
that your father should love again your mother, to that intent ye
shall take a little of this powder and put it on some meat that
j6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FROISSARTV
your father may eat it ; but beware that no man see you. And as
soon as he hath eaten it, he shall intend to nothing but to have
again his wife, and so to love her ever after, which ye ought
greatly to desire ; and of this that I show you let no man know,
but keep it secret, or else ye lose all the deed.' The child, who
thought all that the king said to him had been true, said, ' Sir, it
shall be done as ye have devised ;' and so he departed from Pam-
peluna, and returned to Orthes. The count, his father, made
him good cheer, and demanded tidings of the King of Navarre,
and what gifts he had given him ; and the child showed him how
he had given him divers, and showed him all except the purse
with the powder.
" Ofttimes this young Gaston and Juan, his bastard brother, lay
together j for they loved each other like brethren, and were like
arrayed and apparelled, for they were near of a greatness, and of
one age ; and it happened on a time, as their clothes lay together
on their bed, Juan saw a purse at Gaston's coat, and said, ' What
thing is this that ye bear ever about you V Whereof Gaston had
no joy, and said, ' Juan, give me my coat, ye have nothing to do
therewith :' and all that day after Gaston was pensive.
" And it fortuned a three days after, as God would that the
count should be saved, Gaston and his brother Juan fell out to-
gether, playing at tennis, and Gaston gave him a blow, and the
child went into his father's chamber, and wept. And the count
as then had heard mass, and when the count saw him weep, he
said, 'Son Juan, what ailest thouT 'Sir,' quoth he, 'Gaston
hath beaten me ; but he were more worthy to be beaten than
me.' 'Why so?' quoth the count, and incontinent suspected no-
thing. ' By my faith, Sir,' said he, ' since he returned out of
Navarre, he beareth privily at his breast a purse full of powder ;
I wot not what it is, nor what he will do therewith ; but he hath
said to me once or twice, that my lady, his mother, should shortly
be again in your grace, and better beloved than ever she was/
' Peace ! ' quoth the count, ' and speak no more, and show this to
no man living.' ' Sir,' said he, ' no more I shall.' Then the
count entered into imagination, and so came to the hour of his
FROISSART.J THE PITEOUS DEA TH OF THE SON OF DE FOIX. I 7
dinner ; and he washed, and sat down at his table in the hall.
Gaston his son was used to set down all his service, and to
make the essays.* And when he had set down the first course,
the count cast his eyes on him, and saw the strings of the purse
hanging at his bosom. Then his blood changed, and he said,
' Gaston, come hither • I would speak with thee, in thine ear/
And the child came to him, and the count took him by the bosom,
and found out the purse, and with his knife cut it from his bosom.
The child was abashed, and stood still, and spake no word, and
looked as pale as ashes for fear, and began to tremble. The
Count of Foix opened the purse, and took of the powder, and
laid it on a trencher of bread, and called to him a dog, and gave
it him to eat ; and as soon as the dog had eaten the first morsel,
he turned his eyes in his head, and died incontinent. And when
the count saw that he was sore displeased, and also he had good
cause, and so rose from the table, and took his knife, and would
have stricken his son. Then the knights and squires ran between
them, and said, ' Sir, for God's sake have mercy, and be not so
hasty ; be well informed first of the matter ere you do any evil to
your child.' And the first word that the count said, was, ' Ah,
Gaston ! traitor ! for to increase thine heritage that should come
to thee, I have had war and hatred of the French King, of the
King of England, of the Tring of Spain, of the King of Navarre,
and of the King of Arragon, and as yet I have borne all their
malice, and now thou wouldst murder me ; it moveth of an evil
nature ; but first thou shalt die with this stroke.' And so he stepped
forth with his knife, and would have slain him ; but then all the
knights and squires kneeled down before him weeping, and said,
1 Ah, Sir, have mercy for God's sake — slay not Gaston, your son.
Remember ye have no more children. Sir, cause him to be kept,
and take good information of the matter ; peradventure he knew
not what he bare, and peradventure is nothing guilty of the deed.'
' Well,' quoth the count, 'incontinent put him in prison, and let
him be so kept that I may have a reckoning of him.' Then the
child was put into the tower.
* Tasted the dishes, to prevent the poisoning of the prince.
VOL. I. B
18 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [FROISSART.
" And the count took a great many of them that served his son,
and some of them departed ; and as yet the Bishop of Lescar is
out of the country, for he was had in suspect, and so were divers
others. The count caused to be put to death a fifteen, right hor-
ribly ; and the cause that the count laid to them was, he said, it
could be none otherwise but that they knew of the child's secrets,
wherefore they ought to have showed it to him, and to have said,
4 Sir, Gaston your son beareth a purse at his bosom.' Because
they did not thus, they died horribly ; whereof it was great pity,
for some of them were as fresh and jolly squires as were any in all
the country. For ever the count was served with good men.
" This thing touched the count near to the heart, and that he
well showed : for, on a day, he assembled at Orthes all the nobles
and prelates of Foix and Bierne, and all the notable persons of
his country ; and when they were all assembled, he showed them
wherefore he sent for them, as how he had found his son in this
default, for the which he said his intent was to put him to death,
as he had well deserved. Then all the people answered to that
case with one voice, and said, ' Sir, saving your grace, we will not
that Gaston should die ; he is your heir, and ye have no more.'
And when the count heard the people, how they desired for his
son, he somewhat refrained his ire. Then he thought to chastise
him in prison a month or two, and then to send him on some
voyage for two or three years, till he might somewhat forget his
evil will, and that the child might be of greater age and of more
knowledge.
" Then he gave leave to all the people to depart ; but they of
Foix would not depart from Orthes till the count should assure
them that Gaston should not die ; they loved the child so well.
Then the count promised them, but he said he would keep him
in prison a certain time to chastise him ; and so upon this promise
every man departed, and Gaston abode still in prison.
" These tidings spread abroad into divers places, and at that
time Pope Gregory the Eleventh was at Avignon. Then he sent
the Cardinal of Amiens in legation into Bierne, to have come to
the Count of Foix for that business. And by that time he came
FKOISSART.] THE PITEOUS DEATH OF THE SON OF DE FOIX. 1 9
to Beziers, he heard such tidings that he needed not to go any
farther for that matter ; for there he heard how Gaston, son of the
Count of Foix, was dead. Since I have showed you so much,
now I shall show you how he died.
" The Count of Foix caused his son to be kept in a dark
chamber, in the town of Orthes, a ten days ; little did he eat or
drink, yet he had enough brought him every day, but when he
saw it he would go therefrom, and set little thereby. And some
said that all the meat that had been brought him stood whole and
entire the day of his death, wherefore it was a great marvel that
he lived so long, for divers reasons. The count caused him to be
kept in the chamber alone, without any company, either to coun-
sel or comfort him ; and all that season the child lay in his clothes
as he came in, and he argued in himself, and was full of melan-
choly, and cursed the time that ever he was born and engendered,
to come to such an end.
" The same day that he died, they that served him of meat and
drink, when they came to him, they said, ' Gaston, here is meat
for you ;" he made no care thereof, and said, ' Set it down there.'
He that served him regarded, and saw in the prison all the meat
stand whole as it had been brought him before, and so departed and
closed the chamber door, and went to the count and said, * Sir,
for God's sake, have mercy on your son Gaston, for he is near
famished in prison ; there he lieth. I think he never did eat any-
thing since he came into prison, for I have seen there this day all
that ever I brought him before, lying together in a corner.' Of
these words the count was sore displeased ; and without any word-
speaking, went out of his chamber, and came to the prison where
his son was, and in an evil hour. He had the same time a little
knife in his hand to pare withal his nails. He opened the prison
door and came to his son, and had the little knife in his hand,
and in great displeasure he thrust his hand to his son's throat, and
the point of the knife a lit^e entered his throat, into a certain vein,
and said, 'Ah, traitor! wii/ dost not thou eat thy meat?' And
therewith the count departed without any more doing or saying,
and went into his own chamber. The child was abashed, and
20 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MASSINGER.
afraid of the coming of his father, and also was feeble of fasting,
and the point of the knife a little entered into a vein of his throat,
and so he fell down suddenly and died. The count was scarcely
in his chamber, but the keeper of the child came to him, and said,
* Sir, Gaston your son is dead ! ' ' Dead ! ' quoth the count.
* Yea, truly, Sir,' answered he. The count would not believe it,
but sent thither a squire that was by him, and he went, and came
again, and said, ' Sir, surely he is dead.' Then the count was sore
displeased, and made great complaint for his son, and said, ' Ah,
Gaston ! what a poor adventure is this for thee, and for me ! In
an evil hour thou wentest to Navarre to see thy mother ; I shall
never have the joy that I had before !' Then the count caused
his barber to shave him, and clothed himself in black, and all his
house, and with much sore weeping the child was borne to the
Friars in Orthes, and there buried.
" Thus, as I have showed you, the Count of Foix slew Gaston
his son ; but the King of Navarre gave the occasion of his death."
4. — (Dlir gramalk !ptf£te
SCENES FROM "THE CITY MADAM."
MASSINGER.
[PHILIP MASSINGER, one of the most illustrious of the successors of Shake-
speare, was born at Salisbury in 1584. His father was in the household of
the Earl of Pembroke. He was probably sent to college by the earl ; but the
favour of the great man appears to have been withdrawn from him in his mature
years. He became a writer for the stage, and there is distinct evidence that
his genius scarcely gave him bread. His dramas, which have been collected
.by Gifford, in four volumes, are of unequal merit ; but of some the dramatic
power, the characterisation, the poetry, and the exhibition of manners, are of
the very highest order. Massinger died in 1640.
In selecting a few scenes from " The City Madam," we endeavour to connect
them with the plot, and with each other, by very slight links.]
SCENE I.
Sir John Frugal is a city merchant ; his wife and two daughters of extrava-
gant habits and boundless pride. Luke is brother to Sir John Frugal— a
MASSINGER.J OLD DRAMATIC POETS. 21
dependant on his bounty, having spent all his own substance. Lady Frugal
and her daughters are first shown as treating Luke with unmitigated scorn and
tyranny : —
Lady Frugal. Very good, Sir ;
Were you drunk last night, that you could rise no sooner,
With humble diligence, to do what my daughters
And women did command you ?
Luke. Drunk, an't please you !
L. Frugal. Drunk, I said, sirrah ! dar'st thou, in a look,
Repine or grumble 1 Thou unthankful wretch !
Did our charity redeem thee out of prison,
(Thy patrimony spent,) ragged, and lousy,
When the sheriff's basket, and his broken meat
Were your festival-exceedings ! and is this
So soon forgotten ?
Luke. I confess I am
Your creature, madam.
L. Frugal. And good reason why
You should continue so.
Anne. Who did new clothe you 1
Mary. Admitted you to the dining-room 1
Milliscent (Lady Frugal 's maid.} Allow'd you
A fresh bed in the garret ?
L. Frugal. Or from whom
Received you spending money ?
Luke. I owe all this
To your goodness, madam; for it you have my prayers,
The beggar's satisfaction : all my studies —
(Forgetting what I was, but with all duty
Remembering what I am) — are now to please you.
And if in my long stay I have offended,
I ask your pardon; though you may consider,
Being forced to fetch these from the Old Exchange,
These from the Tower, and these from Westminster.
I could not come much sooner.
22 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MASSINGER.
SCENE II.
Lord Lacy is a nobleman who is desirous that his son should marry one of
the rich merchant's daughters. His deportment to Luke is a contrast to the
vulgar insolence of Lady Frugal and her daughters : —
Lord Lacy. Your hand, Master Luke : the world 's much
changed with you
Within these few months ; then you were the gallant :
No meeting at the horse-race, cocking, hunting,
Shooting, or bowling, at which Master Luke
Was not a principal gamester, and companion
For the nobility.
Luke. I have paid dear
For those follies, my good lord ; and 'tis but justice
That such as soar above their pitch, and will not
Be warn'd by my example, should, like me,
Share in the miseries that wait upon it.
Your honour, in your charity, may do well
Not to upbraid me with those weaknesses,
Too late repented.
L. Lacy. I nor do, nor will ;
And you shall find I '11 lend a helping hand
To raise your fortunes : how deals your brother with you ?
Luke. Beyond my merit, I thank his goodness for 't.
I am a free man; all my debts discharged ;
Nor does one creditor, undone by me,
Curse my loose riots. I have meat and clothes,
Time to ask Heaven remission for what 's past ;
Cares of the world by me are laid aside,
My present poverty 's a blessing to me ;
And though I have been long, I dare not say
I ever lived till now.
SCENE III.
The extravagance and pride of the City Madam and her daughters, who
have rejected the suit of two honourable men in the wantonness of their ambi-
MASSINGER.] OLD DRAMATIC POETS. 23
tion, determine Sir John Frugal, in concert with Lord Lacy, to give out that
he has retired into a monastery, and has left all his riches to his brother. Luke
soliloquises upon his greatness : —
Luke. 'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth,
A real truth ; nor dream : I did not slumber,
And could wake ever with a brooding eye
To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch;
I saw and felt it ! Yet what I beheld
And handled oft, did so transcend belief,
(My wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er,)
I faintly could give credit to my senses.
Thou dumb musician — [Taking out a key\ — that without a
charm
Didst make my entrance easy, to possess
What wise men wish and toil for ! Hermes' moly,
Sibylla's golden bough, the great elixir,
Imagined only by the alchymist,
Compared with thee are shadows — thou the substance,
And guardian of felicity! No marvel
My brother made thy place of rest his bosom,
Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress
To be hugg'd ever ! In by-corners of
This sacred room, silver in bags, heap'd up
Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire,
Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold
That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself.
There needs no artificial light ; the splendour
Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness
By that still-burning lamp for ever banished !
But when, guided by that, my eyes had made
Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd,
Each sparkling diamond, from itself, shot forth
A pyramid of flames, and, in the roof,
Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place
Heaven's abstract, or epitome ! — rubies, sapphires,
And ropes of orient pearl, — these seen, I could not
24 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MASSINGER.
But look on with contempt. And yet I found,
What weak credulity could have no faith in,
A treasure far exceeding these : here lay
A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment,
The wax continuing hard, the acres melting •
Here a sure deed of gift for a market-town,
If not redeem' d this day, which is not in
The unthrift's power ; there being scarce one shire
In Wales or England, where my moneys are not
Lent out at usury, the certain hook'
To draw in more. I am sublimed ! gross earth
Supports me not ;. I walk on air.
SCENE IV.
Luke, who, in his abasement, was all gentleness and humility, treats his
brother's debtors with the most wanton harshness ; and degrades his sister-in-
law and nieces to the condition of menials. The ladies appear before him
clothed in coarsest weeds : —
Luke. Save you, sister !
I now dare style you so : you were before
Too glorious to be look'd on, now you appear
Like a city matron ; and my pretty nieces
Such things as were born and bred there. Why should you
ape
The fashions of court-ladies, whose high titles
And pedigrees of long descent, gave warrant
For their superfluous bravery % 'twas monstrous !
Till now you ne'er look'd lovely.
L. Frugal. Is this spoken
In scorn ?
Luke. Fie ! no ; with judgment. I make good
My promise, and now show you like yourselves,
In your own natural shapes ; and stand resolved
You shall continue so.
L. Frugal. It is confess'd, sir.
Luke. Sir ! sirrah : use your old phrase — I can bear it.
MASSINGER.] OLD DRAMATIC POETS. 25
Z. Frugal. That, if you please, forgotten ; we acknowledge
We have deserved ill from you ; yet despair not,
Though we are at your disposure, you '11 maintain us
Like your brother's wife and daughters.
Luke. 'Tis my purpose.
L. Frugal. And not make us ridiculous.
Luke. Admired rather,
As fair examples for our proud city dames,
And their proud brood to imitate. Do not frown ;
If you do, I laugh, and glory that I have
The power, in you, to scourge a general vice,
And rise up a new satirist : but hear gently,
And in a gentle phrase I '11 reprehend
Your late disguised deformity, and cry up
This decency and neatness, with the advantage
You shall receive by 't.
Z. Frugal. We are bound to hear you.
Luke. With a soul inclined to learn. Your father was
An honest country farmer, goodman Humble,
By his neighbours ne'er call'd master. Did your pride
Descend from him ? but let that pass : your fortune,
Or rather your husband's industry, advanced you
To the rank of a merchant's wife. He made a knight,
And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfied, you wore
Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold,
A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes
A dainty miniver-cap, a silver pin,
Headed with a pearl worth threepence : and thus far
You were privileged, and no man envied it j
It being for the city's honour that
There should be a distinction between
The wife of a patrician and a plebeian.
Mittiscent. Pray you, leave preaching, or choose some other
text;
Your rhetoric is too moving, for it makes
Your auditory weep.
26 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MASSINGKR.
Luke. Peace, chattering magpie !
I '11 treat of you anon : — but when the height
And dignity of London's blessings grew
Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress
Became a byword, and you scorn' d the means
By which you were raised, my brother's fond indulgence
Giving the reins to it ; and no object pleased you
But the glittering pomp and bravery of the court ;
What a strange, nay, monstrous, metamorphosis follow'd !
No English workman then could please your fancy,
The French and Tuscan dress your whole discourse ;
This bawd to prodigality, entertain'd
To buzz into your ears what shape this countess
Appear'd in the last masque, and how it drew
The young lord's eyes upon her ; and this usher
Succeeded in the eldest prentice' place,
To walk before you —
JL. frugal. Pray you, end.
Holdfast, (Sir John Frugal's steward.} Proceed, sir ;
I could fast almost a prenticeship to hear you,
You touch them so to the quick.
Luke. Then, as I said,
The reverend hood cast off, your borrow'd hair,
Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art
Form'd like a coronet, hang'd with diamonds,
And the richest orient pearl ; your carcanets
That did adorn your neck, of equal value :
Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish quellio ruffs ;
Great lords and ladies feasted to survey
Embroider'd petticoats ; and sickness feign' d,
That your night- rails of forty pounds a-piece
Might be seen, with envy, of the visitants ;
Rich pantofles in ostentation shown,
And roses worth a family : you were served in plate,
Stirr'd not a foot without your coach, and going
To church, not for devotion, but to show
MASSTNGER.] OLD DRAMATIC POETS. 2J
Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried,
Heaven save your honour ! this idolatry
Paid to a painted room !
And when you lay
In childbed, at the christening of this minx,
I well remember it, as you had been
An absolute princess, since they have no more,
Three several chambers hung, the first with arras,
And that for waiters ; the second crimson satin,
For the meaner sort of guests ; the third of scarlet
Of the rich Tyrian die ; a canopy
To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state,
Like Pompey's Julia.
L. Frugal. No more, I pray you.
Luke. Of this, be sure you shall not. I '11 cut off
Whatever is exorbitant in you,
Or in your daughters, and reduce you to
Your natural forms and habits ; not in revenge
Of your base usage of me, but to fright
Others by your example : 'tis decreed
You shall serve one another, for I will
Allow no waiter to you. Out of doors
With these useless drones
SCENE V.
The catastrophe is the reformation of the City Madam, and the disgrace
of the tyrannical Luke, when his brother reappears, and demands his own.
The towering audacity of the hypocritical spendthrift raised to sudden riches
is at its height before his final fall : —
Lord Lacy. You are well met,
And to my wish — and wondrous brave ! your habit
Speaks you a merchant royal.
Luke. What I wear
I take not upon trust.
L. Lacy. Your betters may,
And blush not for't.
28 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MASSINGER.
Luke. If you have nought else with me
But to argue that, I will make bold to leave you.
L. Lacy. You are very peremptory ; pray you stay : —
I once held you
An upright, honest man.
Luke. I am honester now
By a hundred thousand pound, I thank my stars for 't,
Upon the Exchange ; and if your late opinion
Be alter' d, who can help it? Good, my lord,
To the point ; I have other business than to talk
Of honesty, and opinions.
L. Lacy. Yet you may
Do -well, if you please, to show the one, and merit
The other from good men, and in a case that now
Is offer' d to you.
Luke. What is it 1 I am troubled.
L. Lacy. Here are two gentlemen, the fathers of
Your brother's prentices.
Luke. Mine, my lord, I take it.
L. Lacy. Goldvvire and Tradewell.
Luke. They are welcome, if
They come prepared to satisfy the damage
I have sustain'd by their sons.
Goldwire. We are, so you please
To use a conscience.
Tradewell. Which we hope you will do,
For your own worship's sake.
Luke. Conscience, my friends,
And wealth, are not always neighbours. Should I part
With what the law gives me, I should suffer mainly
In my reputation; for it would convince me
Of indiscretion : nor will you, I hope, move me
To do myself such prejudice.
L. Lacy. No moderation 1
Luke. They cannot look for 't, and preserve in me
A thriving citizen's credit. Your bonds lie
MASSINGEK.J OLD DRAMATIC POETS. 29
For your sons' truth, and they shall answer all
They have run out : the masters never prosper'd
Since gentlemen's sons grew prentices : when we look
To have our business done at home, they are
Abroad in the tennis-court, or in Partridge Alley,
In Lambeth Marsh, or a cheating ordinary,
Where I found your sons. I have your bonds, look to 't
A thousand pounds a-piece, and that will hardly
Repair my losses.
Z. Lacy. Thou dar'st not show thyself
Such a devil !
Luke. Good words.
Z. Lacy. Such a cut-throat ! I have heard of
The usage of your brother's wife and daughters ;
You shall find you are not lawless, and that your moneys
Cannot justify your villainies.
Luke. I endure this.
And, good my lord, now you talk in time of moneys,
Pay in what you owe me. And give me leave to wonder
Your wisdom should have leisure to consider
The business of these gentlemen, or my carriage
To my sister, or my nieces, being yourself
So much in my danger.
Z. Lacy. In thy danger ?
Luke. Mine.
I find in my counting-house a manor pawn'd,
Pawn'd, my good lord ; Lacy manor, and that manor
From which you have the title of a lord,
An it please your good lordship ! You are a nobleman ;
Pray you pay in my moneys : the interest
Will eat faster in 't than aquafortis in iron.
Now though you bear me hard, I love your lordship ;
I grant your person to be privileged
From all arrests ; yet there lives a foolish creature
Call'd an under-sheriff, who, being well paid, will serve
An extent on lord's or lown's land. Pay it in :
30 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. CLAROCHEJAQUELEIN.
I would be loath your name should sink, or that
Your hopeful son, when he returns from travel,
Should find you, my lord, without land. You are angry
For my good counsel : look you to your bonds ; had I known
Of your coming, believe 't I would have had Serjeants ready.
Lord, how you fret ! but that a tavern 's near,
You should taste a cup of muscadine in my house,
To wash down sorrow ; but there it will do better 1
I know you '11 drink a health to me.
5. — §DIj£ Mar itt 3T
MARQUISE DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.
[THE events of this terrible war of the French Revolution have been detailed
with singular animation, in the late Lord Jeffrey's Review of the Memoirs of
the Marquise de Larochejaquelein. We pass over the early successes of the
insurgents, to give the afflicting narrative of their final discomfiture.]
The last great battle was fought near Chollet, where the insur-
gents, after a furious and sanguinary resistance, were at last borne
down by the multitude of their opponents, and driven down into
the low country on the banks of the Loire. M. de Bonchamp,
who had always held out the policy of crossing this river, and the
advantages to be derived from uniting themselves to the royalists
of Brittany, was mortally wounded in this battle ; but his counsels
still influenced their proceedings in this emergency ; and not only
the whole debris and wreck of the army, but a great proportion
of the men and women and children of the country, flying in con-
sternation from the burnings and butchery of the government
forces, flocked down in agony and despair to the banks of this
great river. On gaming the heights of St Florent, one of the
most mournful, and at the same time most magnificent, spectacles,
burst upon the eye. Those heights form a vast semicircle ; at the
bottom of which a broad bare plain extends to the edge of the
water. Near a hundred thousand unhappy souls now blackened
over that dreary expanse, — old men, infants, and women, mingled
with the half-armed soldiery, caravans, crowded baggage waggons
and teams of oxen, all full of despair, impatience, anxiety, and
terror. Behind were the smokes of their burning villages, and the
LAP.OCHEJAQUELEIN.] THE WAR IN LA VENDEE. 31
thunder of the hostile artillery ; — before, the broad stream of the
Loire, divided by a long low island, also covered by the fugitives
— twenty frail barks plying in the stream — and, on the far banks,
the disorderly movements of those who had effected the passage,
and were waiting there to be rejoined by their companions. Such,
Madame de Lescure assures us,* was the tumult and terror of the
scene, and so awful the recollections it inspired, that it can never
be effaced from the memory of any of those who beheld it ; and
that many of its awe-struck spectators have concurred in stating
that it brought forcibly to their imaginations the unspeakable
terrors of the great Day of Judgment ! Through this dismayed
and bewildered multitude, the disconsolate family of their gallant
general made their way silently to the shore ; — M. de L. stretched,
almost insensible, on a wretched litter, — his wife, three months
gone with child, walking by his side, — and, behind her, her faith-
ful nurse, with her helpless and astonished infant in her arms.
When they arrived on the beach, they with difficulty got a crazy
boat to carry them to the island ; but the aged monk who steered
it would not venture to cross the larger branch of the stream —
and the poor wounded man was obliged to submit to the agony
of another removal
M. de Bonchamp died as they were taking him out of the boat ;
and it became necessary to elect another commander. M. de L.
roused himself to recommend Henri de Larochejaquelein ; and
he was immediately appointed. When the election was an-
nounced to him, M. de L. desired to see and congratulate his
valiant cousin. He was already weeping over him in a dark
corner of the room, and now came to express his hopes that he
should soon be superseded by his recovery, " No," said M. de L.,
" that, I believe, is out of the question : but, even if I were to re-
' cover, I should never take the place you have now obtained, and
should be proud to serve as your aide-de-camp." The day after
they advanced towards Rennes. M. de L. could find no other
conveyance than a baggage waggon ; at every jolt of which he
suffered such anguish, as to draw forth the most piercing shrieks,
even from his manly bosom. After some time an old chaise was
* Afterwards Larochejaquelein;
32 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LAKOCHEJAQUELEIN.
discovered : a piece of artillery was thrown away to supply it
with horses, and the wounded general was laid in it — his head
being supported in the lap of Agatha, his mother's faithful wait-
ing-woman, and now the only attendant of his wife and infant.
In three painful days they reached Laval ; — Madame de L. fre-
quently suffering from absolute want, and sometimes getting
nothing to eat the whole day but one or two sour apples. M. de
L. was nearly insensible during the whole journey. He was roused
but once, when there was a report that a party of the enemy were
in sight. He then called for his musket, and attempted to get
out of the carriage, addressed exhortations and reproaches to the
troops that were flying around him, and would not rest till an
officer in whom he had confidence came up and restored some
order to the detachment. The alarm turned out to be a false one.
At Laval they halted for several days ; and he was so much re-
cruited by the repose, that he was able to get for half an hour on
horseback, and seemed to be fairly in the way of recovery, when
his excessive zeal, and anxiety for the good behaviour of the
troops, tempted him to premature exertions, from the conse-
quences of which he never afterwards recovered. The troops
being all collected and refreshed at Laval, it was resolved to turn
upon their pursuers, and give battle to the advancing army of the
republic. The conflict was sanguinary, but ended most decidedly
in favour of the Vendeans. The first encounter was in the night,
and was characterised with more than the usual confusion of
night attack. The two armies crossed each other in so extraordi-
nary a manner, that the artillery of each was supplied, for a part
of the battle, from the caissons of the enemy ; and one of the
Vendean leaders, after exposing himself to great hazard in help-
ing a brother officer, as he took him to be, out of a ditch, dis-
covered, by the next flash of the cannon, that it was an enemy — *
and immediately cut him down. After day-break the battle be-
came more orderly, and ended in a complete victory. This was
the last grand crisis of the insurrection. The way to La Vendee
was once more open ; and the fugitives had it in their power to
return triumphant to their fastnesses and their homes, after rousing
Brittany by the example of their valour and success. M. de. L.
LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.] THE WAR IN LA VENDEE. 33
and Henri both inclined to this course ; but other counsels pre-
vailed. Some were for marching on to Nantes, — others for pro-
ceeding to Rennes, — and some, more sanguinary than the rest, for
pushing directly for Paris. Time was irretrievably lost in these
deliberations ; and the republicans had leisure to rally, and bring
up their reinforcements, before any thing was definitively settled.
In the meantime, M. de L. became visibly worse ; and one
morning, when his wife alone was in the room, he called her to
him, and told her that he felt his death was at hand ; — that his
only regret was for leaving her in the midst of such a war, with a
helpless child, and in a state of pregnancy. For himself, he
added, he died happy, and with humble reliance on the Divine
mercy; — but her sorrow he could not bear to think of; — and
he entreated her pardon for any neglect or unkindness he
might ever have shown her. He added many other expressions
of tenderness and consolation; and, seeing her overwhelmed with
anguish at the despairing tone in which he spoke, concluded by
saying that he might perhaps be mistaken in his prognosis; and
hoped still to live for her. Next day they were under the neces-
sity of moving forward ; and, on the journey, he learned acciden-
tally from one of the officers the dreadful details of the Queen's
execution, which his wife had been at great pains to keep from
his knowledge. This intelligence seemed to bring back his fever,
though he still spoke of living to avenge her. " If I do live,"
he said, " it shall now be for vengeance only — no more mercy
from me !" That evening, Madame de L., entirely overcome
with anxiety and fatigue, had fallen into a deep sleep on a mat
before his bed : and, soon after, his condition became altogether
desperate. He was now speechless, and nearly insensible ; — the
sacraments were administered, and various applications made,
without awaking the unhappy sleeper by his side. Soon after
midnight, however, she started up, and instantly became aware of
the full extent of her misery. To fill up its measure, it was an-
nounced in the course of the morning that they must immediately
resume their march with the last division of the army. The thing
appeared altogether impossible; Madame de L. declared she
would rather die by the hands of the republicans, than permit her
VOL. i. C
34 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LAROCHEJAQUELEIN.
husband to be moved in the condition in which he then was.
When she recollected, however, that these barbarous enemies had
of late not only butchered the wounded that fell into their power,
but mutilated and insulted their remains, she submitted to the
alternative, and prepared for this miserable journey with a heart
bursting with anguish. The dying man was roused only to heavy
moaning by the pain of lifting him into the carriage — where his
faithful Agatha again supported his head, and a surgeon watched
all the changes of his condition. Madame de L. was placed on
horseback; and, surrounded by her father and mother, and a
number of officers, went forward, scarcely conscious of anything
that was passing — only that sometimes, in the bitterness of her
heart, when she saw the dead bodies of the republican soldiers
on the road, she made her horse trample upon them as if in ven-
geance for the slaughter of her husband. In the course of little
more than an hour, she thought she heard some little stir in the
carriage, and insisted upon stopping to inquire into the cause.
The officers, however, crowded around her; and then her father
came up and said that M. de L. was in the same state as before,
but that he suffered dreadfully from the cold, and would be very
much distressed if the door was again to be opened. Obliged to
be satisfied with this answer, she went on in a sullen and gloomy
silence for some hours longer, in a dark and rainy day of November.
It was night when they reached the town of Fougeres ; and, when
lifted from her horse at the gate, she was unable either to stand
or walk : she was carried into a wretched house, crowded with
troops of all descriptions, where she waited two hours in agony
till she heard that the carriage with M. de L. was come up. She
was left alone for a dreadful moment with her mother; and then
M. de Beauvolliers came in, bathed in tears, and, taking both her
hands, told her she must now think only of saving the child she
carried within her! Her husband had expired when she heard
the noise in the carriage, soon after their setting out, and the sur-
geon had accordingly left it as soon as the order of the march
had carried her ahead ; but the faithful Agatha, fearful lest her
appearance might alarm her mistress in the midst of the journey,
had remained alone with the dead body for all the rest of the day '
LAROCHEJAQUEI.EIN.] THE WAR IN LA VENDEE. 35
Fatigue, grief, and anguish of mind now threatened Madame de
L. with consequences which it seems altogether miraculous that
she should have escaped. She was seized with violent pains, and
was threatened with a miscarriage in a room which served as a
common passage to the crowded and miserable lodging she had
procured. It was thought necessary to bleed her; and, after
some difficulty, a surgeon was procured. She can never forget,
she says, the formidable apparition of this warlike phlebotomist.
A figure six feet high, with ferocious whiskers, a great sabre at his
side, and four huge pistols in his belt, stalked up with a fierce and
careless air to her bedside; and, when she said she was timid
about the operation, answered harshly, " So am not I. 1 have
killed three hundred men and upwards in the field in my time,
one of them only this morning; I think, then, I may venture to
bleed a woman. Come, come, let us see your arm." She was
bled accordingly ; and, contrary to «all expectation, was pretty
well again in the morning. She insisted for a long time in carry-
ing the body of her husband in the carriage along with her ; but
her father, after indulging her for a few days, contrived to fall be-
hind with this precious deposit, and informed her, when he came
up again, that it had been found necessary to bury it privately in
a spot which he would not specify.
After a series of murderous battles, to which the mutual refusal
of quarter gave an exasperation unknown in any other history,
and which left the field so encumbered with dead bodies that
Madame de L. assures us that it was dreadful to feel the lifting of
the wheels, and the cracking of the bones, as her heavy carriage
passed over them, the wreck of the Vendeans succeeded in reach-
ing Angers upon the Loire, and trusted to a furious assault upon
that place for the means of repassing the river, and regaining
their beloved country. The garrison, however, proved stronger
and more resolute than they had expected. Their own gay and
enthusiastic courage had sunk under a long course of suffering
and disaster; and, after losing a great number of men before the
walls, they were obliged to turn back in confusion, they did not
well know whither, but farther and farther from the land to which
all their hopes and wishes were directed
36 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LAROCHEJAQUELBIW.
After many a weary march and desperate struggle, about 10,000 sad
survivors got again to the banks of that fatal Loire, which now
seemed to divide them from hope and protection. Henri, who
had arranged the whole operation with consummate judgment,
found the shores on both sides free of the enemy. But all the
boats had been removed; and, after leaving orders to construct
rafts with all possible despatch, he himself, with a few attendants,
ventured over in a little wherry, which he had brought with him
on a cart, to make arrangements for covering their landing. But
they never saw the daring Henri again! The vigilant enemy
came down upon them at this critical moment — intercepted his
return — and, stationing several armed vessels in the stream, ren-
dered the passage of the army altogether impossible. They fell
back in despair upon Savenay; and there the brave and inde-
fatigable Marigny told Madame de L. that all was now over —
that it was altogether impossible to resist the attack that would
be made next day — and advised her to seek her safety in flight
and disguise, without the loss of an instant. She set out accord-
ingly, with her mother, in a gloomy day of December, under the
conduct of a drunken peasant; and, after being out most of the
night, at length obtained shelter in a dirty farm-house, from which,
in the course of the day, she had the misery of seeing her unfor-
tunate countrymen scattered over the whole open country, chased
and butchered without mercy by the republicans, who now took
a final vengeance of all the losses they had sustained. She had
long been clothed in shreds and patches, and needed no disguise
to conceal her quality. She was sometimes hidden in the mill
when the troopers came to search for fugitives in her lonely re-
treat; and oftener sent, in the midst of winter, to herd the sheep
or cattle of her faithful and compassionate host, along with his
rawboned daughter.
The whole history of their escapes would make the adventures
of Caleb Williams appear a cold and barren chronicle ; but we
have room only to mention that after the death of Robespierre
there was a great abatement in the rigour of pursuit ; and that a
general amnesty was speedily proclaimed for all who had been
concerned in the insurrection.
COL-RIER.J A TALE OF TERROR. 37
6.— &ale of
COURIER.
[PAUL Louis COURIER, who was born in 1774, served in the French army
in Italy, in 1798-9. He was a scholar and a man of taste; and his letters
are full of indignation at the rapacity of the French conquerors. After the
peace of Amiens he published several translations from the Greek. On the
renewal of the war he served again in Italy ; and held the rank of a chief of
squadron in the Austrian campaign of 1809. He gave in his resignation in
1809, for his independent spirit made him obnoxious to the creatures of
Napoleon. His literary reputation is chiefly built upon the political tracts
which he wrote after the restoration of the Bourbons, which, in their caustic
humour, are almost unequalled, and have been compared to the celebrated
" Provincial Letters " of Pascal. The little piece which we translate gives no
notion of his peculiar powers, but it is well adapted for an extract. The story
is contained in a letter to his cousin, Madame Pigalle.]
I was once travelling in Calabria ; a land of wicked people,
who, I believe, hate every one, and particularly the French ; the
reason why would take long to tell you. Suffice it to say that
they mortally hate us, and that one gets on very badly when one
falls into their hands. I had for a companion a young man with
a face — my faith, like the gentleman that we saw at Kincy ; you
remember? and better still perhaps — I don't say so to interest
you, but because it is a fact. In these mountains the roads are
precipices; our horses got on with much difficulty; my com-
panion went first; a path which appeared to him shorter and
more practicable led us astray. It was my fault. Ought I to
have trusted to a head only twenty years old 1 Whilst daylight
lasted we tried to find our way through the wood, but the more
we tried, the more bewildered we became, and it was pitch dark
when we arrived at a very black-looking house. We entered, not
without fear ; but what could we do ? We found a whole family
of colliers at table ; they immediately invited us to join them ; my
young man did not wait to be pressed : there we were eating and
drinking ; he, at least, for I was examining the place and the
appearance of our hosts. Our hosts had quite the look of colliers,
but the house you would have taken for an arsenal ; there was
nothing but guns, pistols, swords, knives, and cutlasses. Every-
38 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COURIER.
thing displeased me, and I saw very well that I displeased them.
My companion, on the contrary, was quite one of the family ; he
laughed and talked with them; and, with an imprudence that I
ought to have foreseen, (but to what purpose, if it was decreed?)
he told at once where we came from, where we were going, and
that we were Frenchmen. Just imagine ! amongst our most
mortal enemies, alone, out of our road, so far from all human
succour ! and then, to omit nothing that might ruin us, he played
the rich man, promised to give the next morning, as a remuner-
ation to these people and to our guides, whatever they wished.
Then he spoke of his portmanteau, begging them to take care of
it, and to put it at the head of his bed ; he did not wish, he
said, for any other pillow. Oh, youth, youth ! you are to be
pitied ! Cousin, one would have thought we carried the crown
diamonds. What caused him so much solicitude about this port-
manteau was his mistress's letters. Supper over, they left us.
Our hosts slept below, we in the upper room, where we had
supped. A loft raised some seven or eight feet, which was reached
by a ladder, was the resting-place that awaited us ; a sort of nest,
into which we were to introduce ourselves by creeping under
joists loaded with provisions for the year. My companion
climbed up alone, and, already nearly asleep, laid himself down
with his head upon the precious portmanteau. Having deter-
mined to sit up, I made a good fire, and seated myself by the
side of it The night, which had been undisturbed, was nearly
over, and I began to reassure myself; when, about the time that
I thought the break of day could not be very far off, I heard our
host and his wife talking and disputing below ; and putting my
ear to the chimney, which communicated with the one in the lower
room, I perfectly distinguished these words spoken by the hus-
band: " Well, let us see, must they both be killed ?" To which
the wife replied, " Yes ;" and I heard no more. How shall I go
on ? I stood scarcely breathing, my body cold as marble ; to have
seen me, you would hardly have known if I were alive or dead.
Good heavens ! when I think of it now ! — We two, almost with-
out weapons, against twelve or fifteen who had so many ! and
VARIOUS.] THE OPENING YEAR. 39
my companion dead with sleep and fatigue ! To call him, or
make a noise, I dared not : to escape alone was impossible ; the
window was not high, but below were two great dogs howling
like wolves. In what an agony I was, imagine if you can. At
the end of a long quarter of an hour I heard some one on the
stairs, and, through the crack of the door, I saw the father, his
lamp in one hand, and in the other one of his large knives. He
came up, his wife after him, I was behind the door ; he opened
it, but before he came in he put down the lamp, which his wife
took. He then entered, barefoot, and from the outside the woman
said to him, in a low voice, shading the light of the lamp with
her hand, "Softly, go softly." When he got to the ladder, he
mounted it, his knife between his teeth, and getting up as high as
the bed — the poor young man lying with his throat bare — with
one hand he took his knife, and with the other — Oh ! cousin — he
seized a ham, which hung from the ceiling, cut a slice from it, and
retired as he had come. The door was closed again, the lamp
disappeared, and I was left alone with my reflections.
As soon as day appeared, all the family, making a great noise,
came to awaken us as we had requested. They brought us some-
thing to eat, and gave us a very clean and a very good breakfast,
I assure you. Two capons formed part of it, of which we must,
said our hostess, take away one and eat the other. When I saw
them I understood the meaning of those terrible words, " Must
they both be killed Vy and I think, cousin, you have enough pene-
tration to guess now what they signified.
THE year of the Calendar and the year of the poets might well have differ-
ent starting points. The poets would welcome a new year with spring-gar-
lands of the tenderest green, and go forth into the fields to find the first violet
giving out its perfume as an offering to the reproductive power which fills the
earth with gladness. But the Calendar offers us only the slow lengthening of
the days to mark the progress of change ; and we have little joy in the length-
ening when the old saw tells us —
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[VARIOUS
"As day lengthens,
Cold strengthens."
The poets, however, have their resources, drawn out of the compensations that
belong to the condition of us all. Hope with them becomes prophetic. " The
Dirge for the Old Year" swells and dances into a bridal song for the New: —
Orphan hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep !
Merry hours, smile instead,
For the year is but asleep;
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold here to-day
Solemn hours ! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year : — be calm and mild,
Trembling hours ; she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave :
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps — but, O ye hours !
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
SHELLEY.
Our ancestors assuredly had a more fervent love of nature than we have, when
they filled their houses with evergreens while the snow blocked up their door-
ways, and replaced them with new emblems of the freshness which is never
wholly dead whilst the rains of February and the winds of March were doing
their nursing-work. The song for Candlemas-day (February 2) was as true a
herald of the spring as the cuckoo and the swallow : —
When yew is out, then birch comes in,
And many flowers beside,
Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,
To honour Whitsuntide.
Down with rosemary and bays,
Down with the mistletoe ;
Instead of holly, now upraise
The greener box for show.
The holly hitherto did sway;
Let box now domineer,
Until the dancing Easter-day,
Or Easter's eve appear.
Then youthful box, which now hath
grace
Your houses to renew,
Grown old, surrender must his place
Unto the crisped yew.
WORDSWORTH, in one of his charming lyrics of the Spring, makes
opening of the year" begin with " the first mild day of March :" —
Jt is the first mild day of March ; There is a blessing in the air,
Each minute sweeter than before, Which seems a sense of joy to yield
The redbreast sings from the tall larch To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
That stands beside our door. And grass in the green field.
Green rushes then, and sweetest bents,
With cooler oaken boughs,
Come in for comely ornaments,
To re-adorn the house.
Thus times do shift ; each thing his turn
does hold ;
New things succeed as former things
grow old.
HERRICK.
the
VARIOUS.]
THE OPENING YEAR.
My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine!)
Now that our morning meal is done.
Make haste, your morning task resign
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you ; and pray,
Put on with speed your woodland
dress :
And bring no book ; for this one day
We '11 give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar;
We from to-day, my friend,
date
The opening of the year.
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason :
; Our minds will drink, at every pore,
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey :
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
the blessed power that
And from
rolls
will About, below, above,
We '11 frame the measure of our souls :
They shall be tuned to love.
Love, now a universal birth, Then come, my sister ! come, I pray,
From heart to heart is stealing, With speed put on your woodland
From earth to man, from man to earth ; dress :
— It is the hour of feeling. And bring no book ; for this one day
We '11 give to idleness.
WORDSWORTH.
The "blessing in the air" is one of the beautiful indications of the awakening
of the earth from its winter sleep. It may proclaim the waking hour in March
• — the cold north-east wind may permit no "sense of joy" till April. But the
opening of the year comes to the poet when he first hears the voice of gladness
in the song of birds, or sees the humblest flower putting on its livery of glory.
It opened to the Ayrshire ploughman when he heard " A Thrush Sing in a
Morning Walk in January;" and that song filled his heart with thankfulness
and contentment : —
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the
leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to
thy strain :
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly
reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd
brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear
Sits meek Content, with light un-
anxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids
them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope
or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening
day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds
yon orient skies !
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer
joys.
What wealth could never give nor take
away!
Yet come, thou child of Poverty and
Care;
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that
mite with thee I '11 share.
BURNS.
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[VARIOUS.
Spring in the lap of Winter is very beautiful. February smiles and pouts
like a self-willed child. We are gladdened by the flower-buds of the elder
and the long flowers of the hazel. The crocus and the snow-drop timidly lift
up their heads. Mosses, the verdure of winter, that rejoice in moisture and
defy cold, luxuriate amidst the general barrenness. The mole is busy in his
burrowed galleries. There are clear mornings, not unmusical with the voices of
more birds than the thrush of Burns. Spenser, the most imaginative of poets,
has painted the March of rough winds — the "sturdy March," the March of
the bent brow — with weapon and armour. But he is also the March of gifts
and of hope, in whose " sternest frown" there is "a look of kindly promise."
So he is described by one of a band of poets whose native voice is heard over
that mighty continent which our forefathers peopled. The cultivation of the
same literature — for that literature is the common property of all "who speak
the tongue which Shakspere spake" — ought, amongst other influences, to bind
America and England in eternal peace and good fellowship : —
MJLMAN.J ST PAUL AT A THZNS. 43
The stormy March is come at last, When the changed winds are soft and
With wind, and cloud, and changing warm,
skies; And heaven puts on the blue of
I hear the rushing of the blast May.
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah, passing few are they who speak, Then sing along the gushing rills,
Wild, stormy month ! in praise of And the full springs, from frost set
thee ! free,
Yet, though thy winds are loud and That, brightly leaping down the hills,
bleak, Are just set out to meet the sea.
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again The year's departing beauty hides
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, Of wintry storms the sullen threat ;
And thou hast join'd the gentle train, But in thy sternest frown abides
And wear'st the gentle name of A look of kindly promise yet.
Spring.
Thou bring' st the hope of those calm
And in thy reign of blast and storm skies,
Smiles many a long bright sunny And that soft time of sunny showers,
day, When the wide bloom on earth that lies
Seems of a brighter world than ours.
BRYANT.
8.— St Haul at Athens.
MlLMAN.
[THE Reverend Henry Hart Milman is the present Dean of Saint Paul's. He
is the son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and passed through
his university education at Brasenose College, Oxford, with distinguished
honours. Mr Milman's poetical works are full of grace: his tragedy of
"Fazio" is perhaps the most finished dramatic production of our times,
though others may have surpassed it in force of character and stage effect.
His "Fall of Jerusalem" is a truly beautiful conception, and some of its
lyrical pieces remarkable for tenderness and sublimity. As a prose writer, Mr
Milman may justly take rank amongst "the best authors." The following
extract is from his learned and unaffectedly pious "History of Christianity."]
At Athens, at once the centre and capital of the Greek philo-
sophy and heathen superstition, takes place the first public and
direct conflict between Christianity and Paganism. Up to this
time there is no account of any one of the apostles taking his
44 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILMAN
station in the public street or market-place, and addressing the
general multitude. Their place of teaching had invariably been
the synagogue of their nation, or, as at Philippi, the neighbour-
hood of their customary place of worship. Here, however, Paul
does not confine himself to the synagogue, or to the society of
his countrymen and their proselytes. He takes his stand in the
public market-place, (probably not the Ceramicus, but the
Eretriac Forum,) which, in the reign of Augustus, had begun
to be more frequented, and at the top of which was the famous
portico from which the Stoics assumed their name. In Athens,
the appearance of a new public teacher, instead of offending the
popular feelings, was too familiar to excite astonishment, and was
rather welcomed as promising some fresh intellectual excitement.
In Athens, hospitable to all religions and all opinions, the foreign
and Asiatic appearance, and possibly the less polished tone and
dialect of Paul, would only awaken the stronger curiosity.
Though they affect at first (probably the philosophic part of
his hearers) to treat him as an idle "babbler," and others (the
vulgar, alarmed for the honour of their deities) supposed that he
was about to introduce some new religious worship which might
endanger the supremacy of their own tutelar divinities, he is con-
veyed, not without respect, to a still more public and commodious
place, from whence he may explain his doctrines to a numerous
assembly without disturbance. On the Areopagus the Christian
leader takes his stand, surrounded on every side with whatever
was noble, beautiful, and intellectual in the older world, — temples,
of which the materials were only surpassed by the architectural
grace and majesty; statues, in which the ideal anthropomorphism
of the Greeks had almost elevated the popular notions of the
Deity, by embodying it in human forms of such exquisite perfec-
tion ; public edifices, where the civil interests of man had been
discussed with the acuteness and versatility of the highest Grecian
intellect, in all the purity of the inimitable Attic dialect, when
oratory had obtained its highest triumphs by " wielding at will the
fierce democracy;" the walks of the philosophers, who unques-
tionably, by elevating the human mind to an appetite for new and
MII.MAH. J ST PAUL AT A THENS. 45
nobler knowledge, had prepared the way for a loftier and purer
religion. It was in the midst of these elevating associations, to
which the student of Grecian literature in Tarsus, the reader of
Menander and of the Greek philosophical poets, could scarcely be
entirely dead or ignorant, that Paul stands forth to proclaim the
lowly yet authoritative religion of Jesus of Nazareth. His audience
was chiefly formed from the two prevailing sects, the Stoics and
Epicureans, with the populace, the worshippers of the established
religion. In his discourse, the heads of which are related by St
Luke, Paul, with singular felicity, touches on the peculiar opinions
of each class among his hearers ; he expands the popular religion
into a higher philosophy, he imbues philosophy with a profound
sentiment of religion.
It is impossible not to examine with the utmost interest the
whole course of this (if we consider its remote consequences, and
suppose it the first full and public argument of Christianity against
the heathen religion and philosophy) perhaps the most extensively
and permanently effective oration ever uttered by man. We may
contemplate Paul as the representative of Christianity, in the
presence, as it were, of the concentrated religion of Greece, and
of the spirits, if we may so speak, of Socrates, and Plato, and
Zeno. The opening of the apostle's speech is according to those
most perfect rules of art which are but the expressions of the
general sentiments of nature. It is calm, temperate, conciliatory.
It is no fierce denunciation of idolatry, no contemptuous disdain
of the prevalent philosophic opinions ; it has nothing of the stern-
ness of the ancient Jewish prophet, nor the taunting defiance of
the later Christian polemic. "Already the religious people of
Athens had, unknowingly indeed, worshipped the universal Deity,
for they had an altar to the unknown God. The nature, the
attributes of this sublimer Being, hitherto adored in ignorant and
unintelligent homage, he came to unfold. This God rose far
above the popular notion ; He could not be confined in altar or
temple, or represented by any visible image. He was the univer-
sal Father of mankind, even of the earth-born Athenians, who
boasted that they were of an older race than the other families of
46 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MILMAN.
man, and coeval with the world itself. He was the fountain of
life, which pervaded and sustained the universe ; he had assigned
their separate dwellings to the separate families of man." Up to
a certain point in this higher view of the Supreme Being, the
philosopher of the Garden as well as of the Porch might listen
with wonder and admiration. It soared, indeed, high above the
vulgar religion : but in the lofty and serene Deity, who disdained
to dwell in the earthly temple, and needed nothing from the hand
of man, the Epicurean might almost suppose that he heard the
language of his own teacher. But the next sentence, which asserted
the providence of God as the active creative energy, — as the con-
servative, the ruling, the ordaining principle, — annihilated at once
the atomic theory and the government of blind chance, to which
Epicurus ascribed the origin and preservation of the universe.
" This high and impressive Deity, who dwelt aloof in serene and
majestic superiority to all want, was perceptible in some mysterious
manner by man ; His all-pervading providence comprehended the
whole human race; man was in constant union with the Deity, as
an offspring with its parent." And still the Stoic might applaud with
complacent satisfaction the ardent words of the apostle; he might
approve the lofty condemnation of idolatry. " We, thus of divine
descent, ought to think more nobly of our Universal Father, than
to suppose that the godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or stone,
graven by art or man's device." But this divine Providence was
far different from the stern and all-controlling necessity, the inex-
orable fatalism of the Stoic system. While the moral value of
human action was recognised by the solemn retributive judgment
to be passed on all mankind, the dignity of Stoic virtue was
lowered by the general demand of repentance. The perfect man,
the moral king, was deposed, as it were, and abased to the general
level; he had to learn new lessons in the school of Christ, lessons
of humility and conscious deficiency, the most directly opposed to
the principles and the sentiments of his philosophy. The great
Christian doctrine of the resurrection closed the speech of Paul.
LANDOR. J ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY.
47
9.— §Lag£r
mttr
fane
LANDOR.
[WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born in 1775. He published a volume of
poems in 1795 ; and has at various periods of his life enriched the poetry of his
country with productions of no common merit. The first series of his " Ima-
ginary Conversations," from which the following dialogue is extracted, was pub-
lished in 1824; a second series appeared in 1836. His complete works were, in
1 846, collected in two large closely printed volumes, sold at a cheap rate. A
great body of readers were thus enabled, for the first time, to make the ac-
quaintance of an author who, although his opinions may sometimes be singular
and paradoxical, has a genuine love for all that is beautiful and ennobling in
human thoughts and actions, and who has rarely been excelled as a prose writer
in fertility and power. He died September 17, 1864.
As a fit introduction to this conversation, we subjoin a passage from Roger
Ascham's celebrated " Scholemaster," describing the character and pursuits
of Lady Jane Grey : —
" Her parents, the Duke and the Duchess, with all the household, gentlemen
and gentlewomen, were hunting in the park : I found her in her chamber,
reading Phsedon Platonis in Greek, and that with as much delight as some
48 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LANDOR.
gentlemen would read a merry tale in Bocace. After salutation, and duty
done, with some other talk, I asked her why she would lose such pastime in
the park : smiling she answered me : ' I wis, all their sport in the park is but a
shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato ; alas ! good folk, they never felt
what true pleasure meant.' ' And how came you, madam,' quoth I, ' to this
deep knowledge of pleasure, and what did chiefly allure you unto it, seeing not
many women, but very few men, have attained thereunto?' ' I will tell you,'
quoth she, ' and tell you a truth, which perchance ye will marvel at. One of
the greatest benefits that ever God gave me, is, that He sent me so sharp and
severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster. For when I am in presence
either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand or go, eat,
drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I
must do it, as it were, in such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly
as God made the world, or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened,
yea, presently sometimes, with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways which
I will not name, for the honour I bear them, so without measure misordered,
that I think myself in hell, till time come that I must go to Mr Elmer, who
teacheth me, so gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements to learning,
that I think all the time nothing whiles I am with him.' "]
Ascham. Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a most
awful state ; thou art passing into matrimony and great wealth.
God hath willed it : submit in thankfulness.
Thy affections are rightly placed and well distributed. Love is
a secondary passion in those who love most, a primary in those
who love least. He who is inspired by it in a high degree, is
inspired by honour in a higher : it never reaches its plenitude
of growth and perfection but in the most exalted minds. Alas !
alas!
Jane. What aileth my virtuous Ascham ? What is amiss ? Why
do I tremble \
Ascham. I remember a sort of prophecy, made three years
ago ; it is a prophecy of thy condition and of my feelings on
it. Recollectest thou who wrote, sitting upon the sea-beach,
the evening after an excursion to the Isle of Wight, these
verses ?
LANDOR.] ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY. 49
Invisibly bright water ! so like air,
On looking down I fear'd thou couldst not bear
My little bark, of all light barks most light,
And look'd again, and drew me from the sight,
And, hanging back, breathed each fresh gale aghast,
And held the bench, not to go on so fast.
Jane. I was very childish when I composed them ; and, if I
had thought any more about the matter, I should have hoped you
had been too generous to keep them in your memory as witnesses
against me.
Ascham. Nay, they are not much amiss for so young a girl, and
there being so few of them, I did not reprove thee. Half an
hour, I thought, might have been spent more uiiprofitably ; and
I now shall believe it firmly, if thou wilt but be led by them to
meditate a little on the similarity of situation in which thou then
vvert to what thou art now in.
Jane. I will do it, and whatever else you command ; for I am
weak by nature and very timorous, unless where a strong sense of
duty holdeth and supporteth me. There God acteth, and not His
creature. Those were with me at sea who would have been atten-
tive to me if I had seemed to be afraid, even though wor-
shipful men and women were in the company ; so that something
more powerful threw my fear overboard. Yet I never will go
again upon the water.
Ascham. Exercise that beauteous couple, that mind and
body, much and variously, but at home, at home, Jane ! in-
doors, and about things indoors ; for God is there too. We
have rocks and quicksands on the banks of our Thames, O
lady, such as ocean never heard of; and many (who knows
how soon !) may be ingulfed in the current under their garden
walls.
Jane. Thoroughly do I now understand you. Yes, indeed, I
have read evil things of courts ; but I think nobody can go out
bad who entereth good, if timely and true warning shall have
been given.
VOL. i. D
50 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
Ascham. I see perils on perils which thou dost not see, albeit
thou art wiser than thy poor old master. And it is not because
Love hath blinded thee, for that surpasseth his supposed om-
nipotence ; but it is because thy tender heart, having always
leant affectionately upon good, hath felt and known nothing of
evil.
I once persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now persuade
thee to avoid the habitude of reflection, to lay aside books,
and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on what is under and before
thee.
Jane. I have well bethought me of my duties : Oh, how ex-
tensive they are ! what a goodly and fair inheritance ! But tell
me, would you command me never more to read Cicero, and
Epictetus, and Plutarch, and Polybius 1 The others I do resign :
they are good for the arbour and for the gravel walk ; yet leave
unto me, I beseech you, my friend and father, leave unto me
for my fireside and for my pillow, truth, eloquence, courage, con-
stancy.
Ascham. Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thy child-bed,
on thy death-bed. Thou spotless, undrooping lily, they have
fenced thee right well. These are the men for men : these are
to fashion the bright and blessed creatures whom God one
day shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom. Mind thou thy hus-
band.
Jane. I sincerely love the youth who hath espoused me; I
love him with the fondest, the most solicitous affection ; I pray
to the Almighty for his goodness and happiness, and do forget
at times, unworthy supplicant ! the prayers I should have offered
for myself. Never fear that I will disparage my kind religious
teacher by disobedience to my husband in the most trying
duties.
Ascham. Gentle is he, gentle and virtuous ; but time will
harden him : time must harden even thee, sweet Jane !
Do thou, complacently and indirectly, lead him from ambi-
tion.
COLERIDGE.] DEJECTION : AN ODE. 51
Jane. He is contented with me, and with home.
Ascham. Ah, Jane ! Jane ! men of high estate grow tired of
contemtedness.
Jane. He told me he never liked books unless I read them to
him : I will read them to him every evening ; I will open new
worlds to him, richer than those discovered by the Spaniard : I
will conduct him to treasures — oh, what treasures ! — on which he
may sleep in innocence and peace.
Ascham. Rather do thou walk with him, ride with him, play
with him, be his faery, his page, his everything that love and
poetry have invented; but watch him well; sport with his fancies,
turn them about like the ringlets round his cheek; and if he ever
meditate on power, go toss up thy baby to his brow, and bring
back his thoughts into his heart by the music of thy discourse.
Teach him to live unto God and unto thee ; and he will dis-
cover that women, like the plants in woods, derive their softness
and tenderness from the shade.
10. — gj^jwtu: an
COLERIDGE.
[SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was born on the 2oth of October 1772, at
Saint Mary Ottery, Devonshire, of which parish his father was the vicar. His
early education was in that noble institution, Christ's Hospital ; and having
there attained the scholastic rank of Grecian, he secured an exhibition to Jesus
College, Cambridge, 1791. But he quitted the university without taking a
degree, having adopted the democratic opinions of the day in all their extreme
results. This boyish enthusiasm eventually subsided into calmer feelings. He
gave himself up to what is one of the first duties of man — the formation of
his own mind. His character was essentially contemplative. He wanted the
energy necessary for a popular writer, and thus people came to fancy that he
was an idle dreamer. What he has left behind him will live and fructify when
the flashy contributions to the literature of the day of four-fifths of his contem-
poraries shall have utterly perished. There is no man of our own times who
has, incidentally as well as directly, contributed more to produce that revolu-
tion in opinion, which has led us from the hard and barren paths of a miscalled
utility, to expatiate in the boundless luxuriance of those regions of thought
which belong to the spiritual part of our nature, and have something in them
higher than a money value. Since Mr Coleridge's death in 1834, some of his
52 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
works have been collected and republished in a neat form and at a moderate
price :— "The Poetical Works," 3 vols. ;— "The Friend, a Series of Essays,"
3 vols. ; — " Aids to Reflection," 2 vols. ; — " On the Constitution of Church and
State," I vol. ; — "Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit," I vol.; — "Literary
Remains," 4 vols. To these has lately been added his " Biographia Literaria,"
in 2 vols. These publications were chiefly superintended by his accomplished
nephew, Mr Henry Nelson Coleridge, whose early death was a public loss. The
" Biographia" was edited by the widow of Mr H. N. Coleridge, the daughter
of the poet — the inheritress of the genius of her father, and of the virtues of her
husband. She died in 1852.]
" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms ;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
We shall have a deadly storm ! "
— Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
I.
Well ! If the bard was weatherwise who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this JEolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo ! the new moon, winter-bright !
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,)
I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast !
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !
COLERIDGE.] DEJECTION: AN ODE. 53
II.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
Stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief
In word, or sigh, or tear —
0 lady ! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green :
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye !
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars,
Those stars that glide behind them or between ;
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen,
Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ;
1 see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel how beautiful they are !
in.
My genial spirits fail,
And what can these avail
To lift that smothering weight from off my breast ?
It were a vain endeavouiy
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west :
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV.
O lady ! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live :
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud !
And would we aught behold of higher worth
54 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGK
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor loneless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth —
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be !
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous lady ! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour ;
Life and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower ;
Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding nature to us gives in dower,
A new earth and new heaven
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud —
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud —
We in ourselves rejoice !
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
VI.
There was a time when, though my path was rough.
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
COLERIDGE.] DEJECTION: AN ODE. 55
But now afflictions bow me down to earth ;
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.
But oh ! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination —
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man —
This was my sole resource, my only plan ;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream !
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out
That lute sent forth ! Thou wind that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tarn,* or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanists ! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st devil's yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold !
What tell'st thou now about ?
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,
* Tarn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in
the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address
to the storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at
night, and in a mountainous country.
56 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds —
At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold !
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans and tremulous shudderings — all is over —
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! —
A tale of less affright,
And temper'd with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, —
Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way ;
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII.
;Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain birth ;
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth ;
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes ;
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul !
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear lady ! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.
1
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 57
[AN Apophthegm is, properly speaking, a pithy saying. An Aphorism is
a precept, or rule of practice. Plutarch made a collection of Apophthegms,
which are for the most part what we call Anecdotes. Lord Bacon's collection
of Apophthegms is almost wholly of the same character. In a preface to this
collection our great English philosopher writes as follows : —
"Julius Coesar did write a collection of apophthegms, as appears in an
epistle of Cicero : I need say no more for the worth of a writing of that nature.
It is pity his work is lost, for I imagine they were collected with judgment and
choice ; whereas that of Plutarch and Stobseus, and much more the modern
ones, draw much of the dregs. Certainly they are of excellent use. They are
mucrones verborum, pointed speeches. Cicero prettily calls them salinas, salt
pits, that you may extract salt out of and sprinkle it where you will. They
serve to be interlaced in continued speech. They serve to be recited, upon
occasions, of themselves. They serve, if you take out the kernel of them and
make them your own. I have, for my recreation in my sickness, fanned the
old, not omitting any because they are vulgar [common], for many vulgar ones
are excellent good ; nor for the meanness of the person, but because they are
dull and flat, and adding many new, that otherwise would have died."
We shall devote a few " Half-hours" to this amusing branch of literature,
selecting, without chronological order, from many books.]
DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE. — Dr Johnson and I [Boswell] took a
sculler at the Temple Stairs, and set out for Greenwich. I asked
him if he really thought a knowledge of the Greek and Latin lan-
guages an essential requisite to a good education. Johnson. " Most
certainly, sir; for those who know them have a very great advantage
over those who do not Nay, sir, it is wonderful what a difference
learning makes upon people even in the common intercourse of life,
which does not appear to be much connected with it." " And
yet," said I, " people go through the world very well, and carry on
the business of life to good advantage, without learning." Johnson.
" Why, sir, that may be true in cases where learning cannot pos-
sibly be of any use ; for instance, this boy rows us as well without
learning as if he could sing the song of Orpheus to the Argonauts,
who were the first sailors." He then called to the boy, " What
would you give, my lad, to know about the Argonauts?" " Sir,"
said the boy, " I would give what I have." Johnson was much
58 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
pleased with his answer, and we gave him a double fare. Dr
Johnson then turning to me, " Sir," said he, " a desire of know-
ledge is the natural feeling of mankind; and every human being,
whose mind is not debauched, will be willing to give all that he
has to get knowledge." — BOSWELL. Life of Johnson.
DECAYED GENTRY. — It happened in the reign of King James,
when Henry, Earl of Huntingdon, was Lieutenant of Leicester-
shire, that a labourer's son of that county was pressed into the
wars ; as I take it to go over with Count Mansfeldt. The old
man at Leicester requested his son might be discharged, as being
the only staff of his age, who by his industry maintained him and
his mother. The earl demanded his name, which the man for a
long time was loath to tell, (as suspecting it a fault for so poor a
man to confess the truth ; ) at last he told his name was Hastings.
" Cousin Hastings," said the earl, " we cannot all be top branches
of the tree, though we all spring from the same root ; your son,
my kinsman, shall not be pressed !" So good was the meeting of
modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honourable person, and
gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to believe, that
some who justly hold the surnames and blood of Bohuns, Morti-
mers, and Plantagenets, (though ignorant of their own extractions,)
are hid in the heap of common people, where they find that under
a thatched cottage, which some of their ancestors could not enjoy
in a leaded castle — contentment, with quiet and security. —
FULLER. Worthies. — Art. of Shire-Reeves or Shiriffes.
GOLDSMITH. — Colonel O' Moore, of Cloghan Castle in Ireland,
told me an amusing instance of the mingled vanity and simplicity
of Goldsmith, which (though, perhaps, coloured a little, as anec-
dotes too often are) is characteristic at least of the opinion which
his best friends entertained of Goldsmith. One afternoon, as
Colonel O' Moore and Mr Burke were going to dine with Sir
Joshua Reynolds, they observed Goldsmith (also on his way to
Sir Joshua's) standing near a crowd of people, who were staring
and shouting at some foreign women in the windows of one of
the houses in Leicester Square. " Observe Goldsmith," said Mr
Burke to O'Moore, "and mark what passes between him and me
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 59
by and by at Sir Joshua's." They passed on, and arrived before
Goldsmith, who came soon after, and Mr Burke affected to receive
him very coolly. This seemed to vex poor Goldsmith, who
begged Mr Burke would tell him how he had the misfortune to
offend him. Burke appeared very reluctant to speak ; but, after
a good deal of pressing, said "that he was really ashamed to
keep up an intimacy with one who could be guilty of such mon-
strous indiscretions as Goldsmith had just exhibited in the square."
Goldsmith, with great earnestness, protested he was unconscious
of what was meant. " Why," said Burke, " did you not exclaim,
as you were looking up at those women, What stupid beasts the
'crowd must be for staring with such admiration at those painted
Jezebels, while a man of your talents passed by unnoticed?"
Goldsmith was horror-struck, and said, " Surely, surely, my dear
friend, I did not say so 1" " Nay," replied Burke, " if you had
not said so, how should I have known it?" " That's true,"
answered Goldsmith, with great humility : " I am very sorry — it
was very foolish : I do recollect that something of the kind passed
through my mind, but I did not think I had uttered it" — Notes in
Croker's edition of Boswetis Johnson.
ILLUSTRIOUS PRISONERS. — Queen Elizabeth, the morrow of her
coronation, went to the chapel ; and in the great chamber, Sir
John Rainsforth, set on by wiser men, (a knight that had the
liberty of a buffoon,) besought the queen aloud— " That now this
good time, when prisoners were delivered, four prisoners, amongst
the rest, mought likewise have their liberty who were like enough
to be kept still in hold." The queen asked who they were;
and he said, " Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who had long
been imprisoned in the Latin tongue, and now he desired they
mought go abroad among the people in English." The queen
answered, with a grave countenance, " It were good, Rainsforth,
they were spoken with themselves, to know of them whether they
would be set at liberty." — BACON.
CANNING AND THE AMBASSADOR. — What dull coxcombs your
diplomatists at home generally are ! I remember dining at Mr
Frere's once in company with Canning and a few other interesting
60 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
men. Just before dinner, Lord called on Frere, and asked
himself to dinner. From the moment of his entry he began to
talk to the whole party, and in French — all of us being genuine
English — and I was told his French was execrable. He had
followed the Russian army into France, and seen a good deal of
the great men concerned in the war ; of none of those things did
he say a word, but went on, sometimes in English and sometimes
in French, gabbling about cookery and dress, and the like. At
last he paused for a little — and I said a few words, remarking
how a great image may be reduced to the ridiculous and con-
temptible by bringing the constituent parts into prominent detail,
and mentioned the grandeur of the deluge and the preservation
of life in Genesis and the "Paradise Lost," and the ludicrous
effect produced by Drayton's description in his Noah's Flood : —
" And now the beasts are walking from the wood,
As well of ravine, as that chew the cud,
The king of beasts his fury doth suppress,
And to the ark leads down the lioness ;
The bull for his beloved mate doth low,
And to the ark brings on the fair-eyed cow," &c.
Hereupon Lord resumed, and spoke in raptures of a picture
which he had lately seen of Noah's ark, and said the animals
were all marching two and two, the little ones first, and that the
elephants came last in great majesty and filled up the foreground.
" Ah ! no doubt, my lord," said Canning ; " your elephants, wise
fellows ! stayed behind to pack up their trunks !" This floored the
ambassador for half-an-hour. — COLERIDGE. Table-Talk.
HENRY MARTIN. — His speeches in the House were not long,
but wondrous poignant, pertinent, and witty. He was exceed-
ingly happy in apt instances ; he alone had sometimes turned the
whole House. Making an invective speech one time against the
old Sir Harry Vane, when he had done with him he said, But for
young Sir Harry Vane — and so sat him down. Several cried out,
" What have you to say to young Sir Harry ?" He rises up :
Why, if young Sir Harry lives to be old, he will be old Sir Harry !
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 6 1
and so sat down, and set the whole House a laughing, as he often-
times did. Oliver Cromwell once in the House called him, jest-
ingly or scoffingly, Sir Harry Martin. H. M. rises and bows,
" I thank your Majesty; I always thought when you were king
that I should be knighted." A godly member made a motion to
have all profane and unsanctified persons expelled the House.
H. M. stood up, and moved that all fools should be put out like-
wise, and then there would be a thin house. He was wont to sleep
much in the House (at least dog-sleep ;) Alderman Atkins made
a motion that such scandalous members as slept and minded not
the business of the House should be put out. H. M. starts up —
" Mr Speaker, a motion has been made to turn out the Nodders ;
I desire the Noddees may also be turned out." — AUBREY'S MSS.
THE DESOLATION OF TYRANNY.— The Khaleefeh, 'Abd El-
Melik, was, in the beginning of his reign, an unjust monarch.
Being, one night, unable to sleep, he called for a person to tell
him a story for his amusement. " O Prince of the Faithful," said
the man thus bidden, " there was an owl in El-M<5sil, and an owl
in El-Basrah ; and the owl of El-M6sil demanded in marriage, for
her son, the daughter of the owl of El-Basrah ; but the owl of
El-Basrah said, ' I will not, unless thou give me as her dowry a
hundred desolate farms.' ' That I cannot do/ said the owl of
El-M6sil, ' at present ; but if our sovereign (may God, whose
name be exalted, preserve him !) live one year, I will give thee
what thou desirest.' " This simple fable sufficed to rouse the
prince from his apathy, and he thenceforward applied himself to
fulfil the duties of his station. — LANE. Notes to Arabian Nights.
PERFECTION. — A friend called on Michael Angelo, who was
finishing a statue. Some time afterwards he called again ; the
sculptor was still at his work ; his friend, looking at his figure,
exclaimed, "You have been idle since I saw you last." ." By no
means," replied the sculptor, "I have retouched this part, and
polished that ; I have softened this feature, and brought out this
muscle ; I have given more expression to this lip, and more
energy to this limb." " Well, well," said his friend, " but all these
are trifles." " It may be so," replied Angelo, " but recollect that
62 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
trifles make perfection, and that perfection is no trifle." — COLTON.
Lacon.
CIVIL WAR. — When the civil wars broke out, the Lord Marshall
had leave to go beyond sea. Mr Hollar went into the Low
Countries, where he stayed till about 1 649. I remember he told me,
that when he first came into England (which was a serene time of
peace) that the people, both poor and rich, did look cheerfully,
but at his return, he found the countenances of the people all
changed, melancholy, spiteful, as if bewitched. — AUBREY'S MSS.
WALLER. — As his disease increased upon Waller, he composed
himself for his departure j and calling upon Dr Birch to give him
the Holy Sacrament, he desired his children to take it with him,
and made an earnest declaration of his faith in Christianity. It
now appeared what part of his conversation with the great
could be remembered with delight. He related that, being pre-
sent when the Duke of Buckingham talked profanely before
King Charles, he said to him, " My Lord, I am a great deal older
than your Grace, and have, I believe, heard more arguments for
atheism than ever your Grace did ; but I have lived long enough
to see there is nothing in them, and so I hope your Grace will."
• — DR JOHNSON. Life of Waller.
JOHN KEMBLE. — I always had a great liking — I may say, a sort
of nondescript reverence — for John Kemble. What a quaint
creature he was ! I remember a party, in which he was discours-
ing in his measured manner after dinner, when the servant
announced his carriage. He nodded, and went on. The an-
nouncement took place twice afterwards ; Kemble each time
nodding his head a little more impatiently, but still going on. At
last, and for the fourth time, the servant entered, and said — " Mrs
Kemble says, sir, she has the reuma/w, and cannot stay." " Add
ism!" dropped John, in a parenthesis, and proceeded quietly in
his harangue.
Kemble would correct anybody at any time, and in any place.
Dear Charles Matthews — a true genius in his line, in my judg-
ment— told me he was once performing privately before the king.
The king was much pleased with the imitation of Kemble, and
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 63
said, — " I liked Kemble very much. He was one of my earliest
friends. I remember once he was talking, and found himself out
of snuff. I offered him my box. He declined taking any — " he,
a poor actor, could not put his fingers into a royal box." I said,
" Take some, pray ; you will oblige me." Upon which Kemble
replied, " It would become your royal mouth better to say, ' oblige
me/ and took a pinch." — COLERIDGE. Table-Talk.
THE INVENTOR OF THE STOCKING FRAMES. — Mr William Lee,
A.M., was of Oxon., (I think Magdalen Hall.) He was the first
inventor of the weaving of worsted stockings by an engine of his
contrivance. He was a Sussex man born, or else lived there.
He was a poor curate, and, observing how much pains his wife
took in knitting a pair of stockings, he bought a stocking and a
half, and observed the contrivance of the stitch, which he designed
in his loom, which (though some of the instruments of the engine
be altered) keeps the same to this day. He went into France,
and there died before his loom was made there. So the art was
not long since in no part of the world but England. Oliver, Pro-
tector, made an act that it should be felony to transport this en-
gine. This information I took from a weaver, (by this engine,)
in Pear-poole Lane, 1656. Sir S. Hoskyn, Mr Stafford Tyndale,
and I, went purposely to see it. — AUBREY'S MSS.
SAINT BARTHOLOMEW. — The deputies of the reformed religion,
after the massacre that was upon St Bartholomew's day, treated
with the king and queen-mother, and some other of the council
for a peace. Both sides were agreed upon the articles. The
question was upon the security of performance. After some par-
ticulars propounded and rejected, the queen-mother said, " Why,
is not the word of a king sufficient security V One of the deputies
answered, " No, by Saint Bartholomew, madam." — BACON.
THE AGE BEFORE NEWSPAPERS. — I am so put to it for some-
thing to say, that I would make a memorandum of the most im-
probable lie that could be invented by a viscountess-dowager ; as
the old Duchess of Rutland does, when she is told of some strange
casualty, " Lucy, child, step into the next room, and set that
down." — "Lord, madam!" says Lady Lucy, "it can't be true."
64 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
" Oh, no matter, child ; it will do for news into the country next
post" — HORACE WALPOLE.
BURNING OF WICKLIFFE'S BODY BY ORDER OF THE COUNCIL OF
CONSTANCE. — Hitherto [A.D. 1428] the corpse of John Wickliffe
had quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years after his death,
till his body was reduced to bones, and his bones almost to dust.
For though the earth in the chancel of Lutterworth, in Leicester-
shire, where he was interred, hath not so quick a digestion with
the earth of Aceldama, to consume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet
such the appetite thereof, and all other English graves, to leave
small reversions of a body after so many years. But now, such
the spleen of the Council of Constance, as they not only cursed
his memory as dying an obstinate heretic, but ordered that his
bones (with this charitable caution, — if it may be discerned from
the bodies of other faithful people) be taken out of the ground,
and thrown far off from any Christian burial. In obedience
hereunto, Richard Fleming, diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his
officers (vultures with a quick sight scent at a dead carcass) to
ungrave him. Accordingly to Lutterworth they came, Sumner,
Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, Doctors, and their
servants (so that the remnant of the body would not hold out a
bone amongst so many hands) take what was left out of the
grave, and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into Swift, a
neighbouring brook running hard by. Thus this brook has con-
veyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the
narrow seas, then into the main ocean ; and thus the ashes of
Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed
all the world over. — FULLER. Church History.
OCH CLO. — The other day I was what you would call floored
by a Jew. He passed me several times, crying for old clothes in
the most nasal and extraordinary tone I ever heard. At last I
was so provoked, that I said to him, " Pray, why can't you say,
1 old clothes' in a plain way as I do now?" The Jew stopped, and
looking very gravely at me, said in a clear and even fine accent,
" Sir, I can say old clothes as well as you can ; but if you had
to say so ten times a minute, for an hour together, you would
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 65
say Och Clo as I do now;" and so he marched oft. I was so
confounded with the justice of his retort, that I followed and gave
him a shilling, the only one I had. — COLERIDGE. Table Talk.
MERCIFUL LAW. — The book of deposing King Richard the
Second, and the coming in of Henry the Fourth, supposed to be
written by Dr Hayward, who was committed to the Tower for it,
had much incensed Queen Elizabeth : and she asked Mr Bacon,
being then of her learned council, " Whether there were any trea-
son contained in it?" Mr Bacon, intending to do him a pleasure,
and to take off the queen's bitterness with a merry conceit, an-
swered, " No, madam, for treason I cannot deliver opinion that
.there is any, but very much felony." The queen, apprehending
it gladly, asked, "How, and wherein?" Mr Bacon answered,
" Because he has stolen many of his sentences and conceits out
of Cornelius Tacitus." — BACON.
PARLIAMENTARY DESPATCH. — Mr Popham, when he was
Speaker, and the Lower House had sat long, and done in effect
nothing, coming one day to Queen Elizabeth, she said to him,
" Now, Mr Speaker, what has passed in the Lower House V He
answered, " If it please your Majesty, seven weeks." — BACON.
OPINIONS. — Charles the Fifth, when he abdicated a throne,
and retired to the monastery of St Juste, amused himself with the
mechanical arts, and particularly with that of a watchmaker. He
one day exclaimed, " What an egregious fool must I have been
to have squandered so much blood and treasure, in an absurd
attempt to make men think alike, when I cannot even make a
few watches keep time together." — COLTON. Lacon.
VOL. L
66 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BULWEE LYTTON.
SIR E. BULWER LYTTON.
[AMONGST the very popular novelists of our times must be reckoned Sir
Edward Bulwer Lytton. It is forty years since his first novel, " Falkland,"
was published. Its reception was not eminently favourable ; but " Pelham,"
from which the following is extracted, at once established a reputation for the
young man of fashion, who brought from Cambridge a character of high pro-
mise. In various realms of fiction Sir Edward has since travelled. As a
dramatist and a novelist his success has been large and enduring. His early
reputation as a brilliant writer of fiction was largely exceeded by the greater
depth and power of his later productions. "The Caxtons" was originally
published in Blackwoods Magazine, as were " My Novel ;" and '* What will he
do with it."]
One bright laughing day, I threw down my book an hour sooner
than usual, and sallied out with a lightness of foot and exhilara-
tion of spirit, to which I had long been a stranger. I had just
sprung over a stile that led into one of those green shady lanes,
which make us feel that the old poets who loved and lived for
nature, were right in calling our island " the merry England " —
when I was startled by a short quick bark on one side of the
hedge. I turned sharply round; and, seated upon the sward, was
a man, apparently of the pedlar profession; a great deal box was
lying open before him; a few articles of linen and female dress
were scattered round, and the man himself appeared earnestly
occupied in examining the deeper recesses of his itinerant ware-
house. A small black terrier flew towards me with no friendly
growl. " Down," said I: "all strangers are not foes — though the
English generally think so."
The man hastily looked up; perhaps he was struck with the
quaintness of my remonstrance to his canine companion; for,
touching his hat civilly, he said — "The dog, sir, is very quiet;
he only means to give me the alarm by giving it to you; for dogs
seem to have no despicable insight into human nature, and know
well that the best of us may be taken by surprise."
BULWER LYTTON.] THE CANDID MAN. 67
" You are a moralist," said I, not a little astonished in my turn
by such an address from such a person. " I could not have ex-
pected to stumble upon a philosopher so easily. Have you any
wares in your box likely to suit me ? if so, I should like to pur-
chase of so moralising a vendor !"
"No, sir/' said the seeming pedlar, smiling, and yet at the
same time hurrying his goods into his box, and carefully turning
the key — " no, sir, I am only a bearer of other men's goods; my
morals are all that I can call my own, and those I will sell you at
your own price."
"You are candid, my friend," said I, "and your frankness,
,alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and country of
hypocrisy/'
" Ah, sir !" said my new acquaintance, " I see already that you
are one of those persons who look to the dark side of things; for
my part, I think the present age the best that ever existed, and
our country the most virtuous in Europe."
" I congratulate you, Mr Optimist, on your opinions," quoth I ;
"but your observation leads me to suppose that you are both an
historian and a traveller: am I right?"
" Why," answered the box-bearer, " I Have dabbled a little in
books, and wandered not a little among men. I am just returned
from Germany, and am now going to my friends in London. I
am charged with this box of goods : God send me the luck to
deliver it safe!"
" Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this trifle I wish you
a good morning."
" Thank you a thousand times, sir, for both," replied the man
— " but do add to your favours by informing me of the right road
to the town of ."
" I am going in that direction myself: if you choose to accom-
pany me part of the way, I can insure your not missing the rest."
"Your honour is too good!" returned he of the box, rising,
and slinging his fardel across him — "it is but seldom that a
gentleman of your rank will condescend to walk three paces with
68 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BULWER LYTTON.
one of mine. You srnile, sir; perhaps you think I should not
class myself among gentlemen; and yet I have as good a right to
the name as most of the set. I belong to no trade — I follow no
calling; I rove where I list, and rest where I please: in short, I
know no occupation but my indolence, and no law but my will.
Now, sir, may I not call myself a gentleman 1 "
" Of a surety !" quoth I. " You seem to me to hold a middle
rank between a half-pay captain and the king of the gipsies."
" You have it, sir," rejoined my companion, with a slight laugh.
He was now by my side, and, as we walked on, I had leisure more
minutely to examine him. He was a middle-sized, and rather
athletic man; apparently about the age of thirty-eight. He was
attired in a dark blue frock-coat, which was neither shabby nor
new, but ill-made, and much too large and long for its present
possessor ; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had
formerly, like the Persian ambassador's tunic, " blushed with crim-
son, and blazed with gold ;" but which might now have been,
advantageously exchanged in Monmouth Street for the lawful
sum of two shillings and ninepence, under this was an inner vest
of the Cashmere shawl pattern, which seemed much too new for
the rest of the dress. Though his shirt was of a very unwashed
hue, I remarked, with some suspicion, that it was of a very re-
spectable fineness ; and a pin, which might be paste, or could be
diamond, peeped below a tattered and dingy black kid stock, like
a gipsy's eye beneath her hair.
His trousers were of a light gray, and the justice 01 Providence,
or of the tailor, avenged itself upon them tor the prodigal length
bestowed upon their ill-assorted companion, the coat; for they
were much too tight for the muscular limbs they concealed, and,
, far above the ankle, exhibited the whole ot a thick Welling-
ton boot, which was the very picture of Italy upon the map.
The face of the man was commonplace and ordinary; one sees
a hundred such, every day, in Fleet Street, or on the 'Change ;
atures were small, irregular, and somewhat flat ; yet, when
you looked twice upon the countenance, there was something
BULWBR LYTTON.] THE CANDID MAN. 69
marked and singular in the expression, which fully atoned for the
commonness of the features. The right eye turned away from
the left, in that watchful squint which seems constructed on the
same considerate plan as those Irish guns, made for shooting
round a corner; his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly
resembled bramble bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken
refuge. Round these vulpine retreats was a labyrinthean maze
of those wrinkles, vulgarly called crow's feet, deep, intricate, and
intersected, they seemed for all the world like the web of a Chan-
cery suit Singular enough, the rest of the countenancet was per-
fectly smooth and unindented: even the lines from the nostril to
the corners of the mouth, usually so deeply traced in men of his
age, were scarcely more apparent than in a boy of eighteen.
His smile was frank — his voice clear and hearty — his address
open, and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming
somewhat of equality, yet conceding a great deal of respect; but,
notwithstanding all these certainly favourable points, there was a
sly and cunning expression in his perverse and vigilant eye aiul
all the wrinkled demesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust
even while I liked my companion : perhaps, indeed, he was too
frank, too familiar, too dcgagt, to be quite natural. Your honest
men soon buy reserve by experience. Rogues are communicative
and open, because confidence and openness cost them nothing.
To finish the description of my new acquaintance, I should ob-
serve that there was something in his countenance which struck me
as not wholly unfamiliar ; it was one of those which we have not,
in all human probability, seen before, and yet which (perhaps
from their very commonness) we imagine we have encountered a
hundred times.
We walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of the day ;
in fact, the air was so pure, the grass so green, the laughing noon-
day so full of the hum, the motion, and the life of creation, that
the feeling produced was rather that Of freshness and invigoration
than of languor and heat.
" We have a beautiful country, sir," said my hero of the box.
70 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BULWER LYTTON.
" It is like walking through a garden, after the more sterile and
sullen features of the continent. A pure mind, sir, loves the
country ; for my part, I am always disposed to burst out in thanks-
giving to Providence when I behold its works, and, like the
valleys in the psalm, I am ready to laugh and sing."
"An enthusiast/' said I, " as well as a philosopher ! perhaps, (and
I believed it likely,) I have the honour of addressing a poet also."
" Why, sir," replied the man, " I have made verses in my life ;
in short, there is little I have not done, for I was always a lover
of variety ; but, perhaps, your honour will let me return the sus-
picion. Are you not a favourite of the muse 1 "
" I cannot say that I am," said I. " I value myself only on
my common sense — the very antipodes to genius, you know,
according to the orthodox belief."
" Common sense !" repeated my companion, with a singular
and meaning smile, and a twinkle with his left eye. " Common
sense ! Ah, that is not my forte, sir. You, I daresay, are one
of those gentlemen whom it is very difficult to take in, either
passively or actively, by appearance, or in act ? For my part, I
have been a dupe all my life — a child might cheat me ! I am
the most unsuspicious person in the world."
" Too candid by half," thought I. " This man is certainly a
rascal ; but what is that to me 1 I shall never see him again ; "
and true to my love of never losing an opportunity of ascertain-
ing individual character, I observed that I thought such an ac-
quaintance very valuable, especially if he were in trade ; it was a
pity, therefore, for my sake, that my companion had informed me
that he followed no calling.
" Why, sir," said he, " I am occasionally in employment ; my
nominal profession is that of a broker. I buy shawls and hand-
kerchiefs of poor countesses, and retail them to rich plebeians.
I fit up new-married couples with linen at a more moderate rate
than the shops, and procure the bridegroom his present of jewels
at forty per cent, less than the jewellers ; nay, I am as friendly to
an intrigue as a marriage ; and, when I cannot sell my jewels, I
BULWER LYTTOH.] THE CANDID MAN". 7 1
will my good offices. A gentleman so handsome as your honour
may have an affair upon your hands ; if so, you may rely upon
my secrecy and zeal. In short, I am an innocent good-natured
fellow, who does harm to no one or nothing, and good to every
one for something."
" I admire your code," quoth I, " and, whenever I want a medi-
ator between Venus and myself, will employ you. Have you
always followed your present idle profession, or were you brought
up to any other ? "
" I was intended for a silversmith," answered my friend : " but
Providence willed it otherwise : they taught me from childhood
to repeat the Lord's prayer : Heaven heard me, and delivered me
from temptation — there is, indeed, something terribly seducing in
the face of a silver spoon."
" Well," said I, " you are the honestest knave that ever I met,
and one would trust you with one's purse, for the ingenuousness
with which you own you would steal it. Pray, think you, is it
probable that I have ever had the happiness of meeting you be-
fore ? I cannot help fancying so — as yet I have never been in
the watch-house or the Old Bailey, my reason tells me that I must
be mistaken."
" Not at all, sir," returned my worthy ; " I remember you well,
for I never saw a face like yours that I did not remember. I had
the honour of sipping some British liquors in the same room with
yourself one evening ; you were then in company with my friend
Mr Gordon."
" Ha ! " said I, " I thank you for the hint. I now remember
well, by the same token that he told me you were the most in-
genious gentleman in England, and that you had a happy pro-
pensity of mistaking other people's possessions for your own ;
I congratulate myself upon so desirable an acquaintance."
My friend smiled with his usual blandness, and made me a low
bow of acknowledgment before he resumed : —
" No doubt, sir, Mr Gordon informed you right. I flatter my-
self few gentlemen understand better than myself the art of ap-
72 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BULWER LYTTON.
propriation, though I say it who should not say it. I deserve the
reputation I have acquired, sir, I have always had ill-fortune to
struggle against, and always have remedied it by two virtues —
perseverance and ingenuity. To give you an idea of my ill-for-
tune, know that I have been taken up twenty-three times on sus-
picion ; of my perseverance, know that twenty-three times I have
been taken up justly ; and, of my ingenuity, know that I have
been twenty-three times let off, because there was not a tittle of
legal evidence against me !"
" I venerate your talents, Mr Jonson," replied I, " if by the
name of Jonson it pleaseth you to be called, although, like the
heathen deities, I presume that you have many titles, whereof
some are more grateful to your ears than others."
" Nay," answered the man of two virtues, " I am never ashamed
of my name ; indeed, I have never done anything to disgrace me.
I have never indulged in low company, nor profligate debauchery:
whatever I have executed by way of profession has been done in
a superior and artist-like manner; not in the rude bungling
fashion of other adventurers. Moreover, I have always had a
taste for polite literature, and went once as an apprentice to a
publishing bookseller, for the sole purpose of reading the new
works before they came out. In fine, I have never neglected any
opportunity of improving my mind ; and the worst that can be
said against me is, that I have remembered my catechism, and
taken all possible pains * to learn and labour truly to get my living,
and to do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased
Providence to call me.' "
"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honour among
thieves ; I am happy to learn from you that there is also religion :
your baptismal sponsors must be proud of so diligent a godson/'
" They ought to be, sir," replied Mr Jonson, " for I gave them
the first specimens of my address : the story is long, but, if you
ever give me an opportunity, I will relate it."
" Thank you," said I ; " meanwhile I must wish you good
morning : your way now lies to the right. I return you my best
ADDISON.] SIS ROGER DE COVERLEY. 73
thanks for your condescension, in accompanying so undistin-
guished an individual as myself."
" Oh, never mention it, your honour," rejoined Mr Jonson^
" I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of your ' com-
mon sense.' Farewell, sir ; may we meet again ! "
So saying, Mr Jonson struck into his new road, and we
parted.
I went home, musing on my adventure, and delighted with my
adventurer. When I was about three paces from the door of my
home, I was accosted in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar,
apparently in the last extreme of misery and disease. Notwith-
standing my political economy, I was moved into alms-giving by
a spectacle so wretched. I put my hand into rny pocket, my
purse was gone ; and, on searching the other, lo — my handker-
chief, my pocket-book, and a gold locket, which had belonged to
Madame D'Anville, had vanished too.
One does not keep company with men of two virtues, and re-
ceive compliments upon one's common sense, for nothing !
The beggar still continued to importune me.
" Give him some food and half-a-crown," said I to my landlady.
Two hours afterwards she came up to me — " O sir ! my silver
teapot — that villain the beggar 7"
A light flashed upon me — " Ah, Mr Job Jonson ! Mr Job Jon-
son ! " cried I, in an indescribable rage ; " out of my sight,
woman ! out of my sight ; " I stopped short ; my speech failed
me. Never tell me that shame is the companion of guilt — the
sinful knave is never so ashamed of himself as is the innocent
fool who suffers by him.
13.—
ADDISON.
QOSEPH ADDISON was born on the 1st of May 1672, at Milston, Wilts, of
which parish his father was rector. His early education was at the Charter-
house, from which celebrated school he proceeded to Oxford, and obtained a
74 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
scholarship of Magdalen College. In 1694, he published his first English
poem. Men of letters at that period were sought out for public employments.
Addison filled several official appointments, for which he seems to have been
peculiarly unfitted. With his contemporaries his fame was that of a poet.
With us "Cato" is forgotten; the "Spectator" and "Guardian" are the
best monuments of Addison' s genius. He died in 1719-]
Cowley is a pretty village about two miles from Oxford ; and here some one
lived in the days of the Tudors who was famous enough to have his name
linked with the pretty dance tune that has once again become fashionable.
But he had a higher honour. The popularity of the dance in the days of
Queen Anne gave a name to the most famous character in the "Spectator;"
and ever afterwards the dance itself gathered an accession of dignity even in
its name ; and plain Roger of Cowley became Sir Roger de Coverley. Some
of the most delightful papers of Addison, in which Steele occasionally assisted,
are devoted to the fictitious character of Sir Roger. Few people now read
the " Spectator" as a whole. One or two of the more celebrated essays, such
as " The Vision of Mirza," find their place in books of extracts. The delicate
humour of the delineation of Sir Roger de Coverley is always referred to as
the highest effort of Addison's peculiar genius ; but not many will take the
pains to select these sixteen or seventeen papers from the six hundred and
thirty which form the entire work. These papers have a completeness about
them which shows how thoroughly they were written upon a settled plan.
Steele appears to have first conceived the character in the second number of
the "Spectator;" but Addison very soon took it out of his friend's hands,
who was scarcely able to carry on the portraiture with that refinement which
belonged to Addison's conception of the character. Addison, it is said, killed
Sir Roger in the fear that another hand would spoil him.
As a representation of manners a century and a half ago, the picture of Sir
Roger de Coverley has a remarkable value. The good knight is thoroughly
English ; and in him we see a beautiful specimen of the old-fashioned gentle-
man, with a high soul of honour, real benevolence, acute sense, mixed up with
the eccentricities which belong to a nation of humorists. The readers of the
" Spectator" are fast diminishing. No one now gives " his days and nights to
the volumes of Addison ; " but his gentle graceful humour has never been ex-
celled, and nowhere is it more conspicuous than in the papers of which Sir
Roger de Coverley is the hero.
The plan of "The Spectator" is founded upon the fiction of a club that
assembles every Tuesday and Thursday to carry on the publication. Sir
Roger does not appear highly qualified for a literary colleague — a collaborateur,
as the French style it,— but he nevertheless is the foremost in " The Specta-
tor's" " account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in the work :" —
" The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of
an ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley.
ADDISON.I SfR ROGER DE COVER LEY. 75
His great grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance
which is called after him. All who know that shire are very well
acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is "a
gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but his singu-
larities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to
the manners of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the
wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, for he
does nothing with sourness or obstinacy, and his being uncon-
fined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more
capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in
town he lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a
bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beauti-
ful widow of the next county to him. Before this disappointment,
Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped
with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a duel
upon his first coming to town, and kicked bully Dawson in a
public coffee-house for calling him youngster: but being ill-used
by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year
and a half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at
last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed
afterward. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same
cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his
merry humours, he tells us has been in and out twelve times since
he first wore it He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay,
and hearty; keeps a good house both in town and country; a
great lover of mankind ; but there is such a mirthful cast in his
behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed.
" His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the
young women profess to love him, and the young men are glad
of his company. When he comes into a house he calls the
servants by their names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit.
I must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum, that he
fills the chair at a quarter-sessions with great abilities, and three
months ago gained universal applause by explaining a passage in
the Game Act."
76 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
We hear little of Sir Roger, except an occasional opinion, till we reach the
io6th number, when Addison takes up the man of whom he said "we are born
for each other : "—
" Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir
Roger de Coverley, to pass away a month with him in the
country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with
him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form
several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well
acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I
please, dine at his own table or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit
still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the
gentlemen of the county come to see him, he shows me at a
distance. As I have been walking in his fields I have observed
them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the
knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to
be stared at.
" I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it con-
sists of sober, staid persons ; for as the knight is the best master
in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he is be-
loved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him ;
by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with
their master. You would take his valet-de-chambre for his
brother; his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest
men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a
privy councillor. You see the goodness of the master even in his
old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with
great care and tenderness, out of regard for his past services,
though he has been useless for several years.
" I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy
that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics
upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could
not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; every one
of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed
discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the
good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master
of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with
ADDISON.] SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 77
several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity
and good nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is
pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humour,
and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with :
on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age,
it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the
looks of all his servants.
" My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his
butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his
fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they
have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular
friend."
Such is the general outline of the character and position of Sir Roger de
Coverley.
The humour of Addison is manifest in his delineation of Sir Roger's chap-
lain; and that personage is a pleasing specimen of the unambitious, quiet,
placable clergyman of the days of Anne, when there was not a vast amount of
zeal in the Church, and perhaps not quite so much piety as an earnest Christian
would desire : —
" My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in
the woods or the fields, is a venerable man who is ever with Sir
Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain
above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and
some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation; he
heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the
old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a
relation than a dependant.
" I have observed in several of my papers that my friend Sir
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist,
and that his virtues as well as imperfections are, as it were, tinged
by a certain extravagance which makes them particularly his, and
distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind,
as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conver-
sation highly agreeable and more delightful than the same degree
of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary
colours. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how
78 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned : and
without staying for my answer, told me that he was afraid of being
insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason
he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him
out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a
good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a
man that understood a little of backgammon. ' My friend,' says
Sir Roger, ' found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endow-
ments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he
does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish ;
and because I know his value, have set upon him a good annuity
for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my
esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me
thirty years ; and though he does not know I have taken notice
of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself,
though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of
one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been
a law-suit in the parish since he has lived among them ; if any
dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if
they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never hap-
pened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his
first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good ser-
mons which have been printed in English, and only begged of
him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the
pulpit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series that
they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system
of practical divinity.'"
The Spectator goes to church, and hears "the Bishop of St Asaph in the
morning, and Dr South in the afternoon ;" that is, he hears the chaplain read
a sermon from Fleetwood's and South's printed collections. He says, " I
was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as
with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more
*o my satisfaction." This is to speak of a sermon as he would of a play;
which was indeed very much the temper of the Spectator's age. He recom-
mends tae country clergy not " to waste their spirits in laborious composi-
tions of their own," but to enforce "by a handsome elocution," those dis-
courses "which have been penned by great masters." Whether the advice
ADDISON.] SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 79
be judicious or not is scarcely necessary to be discussed. There is some-
thing higher to be attained by preaching than enabling a listener to pass his
time to his satisfaction ; but something even worse may be effected by
cold, incoherent, and dull preaching — drowsiness under the shadow of high
pews.
Sir Roger's picture gallery is an interesting portion of his ancient mansion.
There is one picture in it which has reference to his own personal history : —
" At the very upper end of this handsome structure, I saw the
portraiture of two young men standing in a river, the one naked,
the other in a livery. The person supported seemed half dead,
but still so much alive as to show in his face exquisite joy and
love towards the other. I thought the fainting figure resembled
my friend Sir Roger ; and looking at the butler, who stood by
me, for an account of it, he informed me that the person in the
livery was a servant of Sir Roger's, who stood on the shore while
his master was swimming, and observing him taken with some
sudden illness, and sink under water, jumped in and saved him.
He told me Sir Roger took off the dress he was in as soon as he
came home, and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his
favour ever since, had made him master of that pretty seat which
we saw at a distance as we came to his house. I remembered,
indeed, Sir Roger said there lived a very worthy gentleman to
whom he was highly obliged, without mentioning anything further.
Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the picture,
my attendant informed me that it was against Sir Roger's will,
and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was
drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master."
But the gallery is chiefly filled with the portraits of the old De Coverleys.
There we have the knight in buff of the days of Elizabeth, who won " a maid
of honour, the greatest beauty of her time," in a tournament in the tilt-yard.
The spendthrift of the next generation — the fine gentleman who " ruined
everybody that had anything to do with him, but never said a rude thing in
his life," is drawn at full-length, with his "little boots, laces, and slashes."
But the real old English country gentleman, who kept his course of honour in
evil times — in days of civil commotion, and afterwards in a period of court
profligacy — is a character which we trust will never be obsolete : —
"This man (pointing to him I looked at) I take to be the hon-
our of our house, Sir Humphrey de Coverley : he was in his deal*
8o HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
ings as punctual as a tradesman, and as generous as a gentleman.
He would have thought himself as much undone by breaking his
word as if it were to be followed by bankruptcy. He served his
country as knight of the shire to his dying day. He found it no
easy matter to maintain an integrity in his words and actions,
even in things that regarded the offices which were incumbent
upon him in the care of his own affairs and relations of life, and
therefore dreaded (though he had great talents) to go into employ-
ments of state, where he must be exposed to the snares of ambi-
tion. Innocence of life and great ability were the distinguishing
parts of his character; the latter, he had often observed, had led
to the destruction of the former, and he used frequently to lament
that great and good had not the same signification. He was an
excellent husbandman, but had resolved not to exceed such a
degree of wealth; all above it he bestowed in secret bounties,
many years after the sum he aimed at for his own use was attained.
Yet he did not slacken his industry, but to a decent old age spent
the life and fortune which were superfluous to himself in the ser-
vice of his friends and neighbours."
The ghosts which used to haunt Sir Roger's mansion were laid, even in his
time, by a good orthodox process : —
" My friend Sir Roger has often told me, with a great deal of
mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found three parts
of his house altogether useless ; that the best room in it had the
reputation of being haunted, and by that means was locked up ;
that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so that he could
not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at night; that the
door of one of his chambers was nailed up, because there went a
story in the family, that a butler had formerly hanged himself in
it ; and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had shut up
half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son,
or daughter had died. The knight, seeing his habitation reduced
to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his
own house, upon the death of his mother ordered all the apart-
ments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in
ADDISON.I SSR ROGER DE COVER LEY. 8 1
every room, one after another, and by that means dissipated the
fears which had so long reigned in the family."
But the belief in apparitions was not passed away. The haunted ruins are
described by Addison with his usual grace : —
" At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the ruins
of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms, which are shot
up so very high, that when one passes under them, the rooks and
crows that rest upon the tops of them seem to be cawing in
another region. I am very much delighted with this sort of noise,
which I consider as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who
supplies the wants of His own creation, and who, in the beautiful
language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens that call upon
Him. I like this retirement the better, because of an ill report it
lies under of being haunted • for which reason (as I have been,
told in the family) no living creature ever walks in it besides the
chaplain. My good friend the butler desired me, with a very
grave face, not to venture myself in it after sunset, for that one of
the footmen had been almost frightened out of his wits by a spirit
that appeared to him in the shape of a black horse without a
head ; to which he added, that about a month ago one of the
maids, coming home late that way with a pail of milk upon her
head, heard such a rustling among the bushes, that she let it fall."
The fame of the " Spectator's" Sir Roger de Coverley was revived some
twenty years ago by one of the most beautiful pictures of the modern English
school — the charming representation, by Newton, of the fine old squire coming
out of church, amidst the reverential greetings of his affectionate tenantry.
This was a real old English scene ; and such as touched our sympathies, even
in an age when much of this cordial intercourse between the great and the
humble has passed away. The paper of the "Spectator" upon which this
picture is founded is by Addison, and in his best style : —
" I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and
think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institu-
tion, it would be the best method that could have been thought
of for the polishing and civilising of mankind. It is certain the
country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and
barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time,
VOL. i. F
82 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and
in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon differ-
ent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together
in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust
of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the
notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing
in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as
are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country
fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a citizen
does upon the 'Change, the whole parish politics being generally
discussed in that place, either after sermon or before the bell
rings.
" My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified
the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing.
He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the
communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that
at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irre-
gular : and that in order to make them kneel, and join in the
responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common
Prayer Book ; and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-
master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct
them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms, upon which they now very
much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country
churches that I have ever heard.
" As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps
them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it
besides himself ; for if by chance he has been surprised into a
short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it, he stands up and
looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either
wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other
of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions.
Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse, in the singing
Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done
with it ; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his
devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times in the same
prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon
ADDISON.] SJR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 83
their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants
are missing.
" I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in
the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind
what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John
Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at
that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority
of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accom-
panies him in all the circumstances of life, has a very good effect
upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything
ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense
and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these
little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good
qualities.
" As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till
Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down
from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants,
that stand bowing to him on each side ; and every now and then
inquires how such a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do,
whom he does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret
reprimand to the person that is absent.
" The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day,
when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he
has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encourage-
ment, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his
mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the
clerk's place; and, that he may encourage the young fellows to
make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon
the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it
according to merit.
" The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain,
and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remark-
able, because the very next village is famous for the differences
and contentions that arise between the parson and the squire, who
live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching
at the squire, and the squire, to be revenged on the parson, never
84 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOM.
comes to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists
and tithe-stealers, while the parson instructs them every Sunday in
the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them, in almost every
sermon, that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters
are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said his
prayers either in public or private this half-year ; and the parson
threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him
in the face of the whole congregation.
" Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are
very fatal to the ordinary people ; who are so used to be dazzled
with riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding
of a man of an estate as of a man of learning; and are very hardly
brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that
is preached to them, when they know there are several men of
five hundred a year who do not believe it."
The quiet humour of this pleasant description furnishes in itself a tolerable
example of the state of opinion in the reign of Queen Anne — our Augustan age,
as it has often been called. It shows the cold and worldly aspect which the
most solemn institutions presented to the eye of the conventional moralist.
There is something much higher in the association of Christians in public wor-
ship than even the good of meeting together with " best faces and cleanliest
habits." Sunday is to be observed for something better than "clearing away
the rust of the week," and "putting both sexes upon appearing in their most
agreeable forms." But for too long a period this has been very much the
orthodox notion of Sunday and Sunday duties ; and the real purpose of public
worship, that of calling forth the spiritual and unworldly tendencies of our
nature, to the exclusion of the ambition and vanity of every-day life, is only
beginning yet to be generally felt in town or village. We lost for two or three
centuries the zealous spirit which made the cathedral and the church a refuge
from the hard and irritating cares which belong to a life of struggle and vexa-
tion ; which there lifted us up to a calm and earnest reliance on the protection
of the great Father of all ; which made all men equal in their capacity for
partaking of this elevation of spirit ; which for a while excluded the distinctions
that belong to transitory things alone. The solemn responses, the soul-uttering
chants, the assembling together in temples venerable for their antiquity and
impressive in their beauty, gave a loftier tone to the mind of the most unin-
formed than belongs to the discussion of parish politics "after sermon or before
the bell rings." A reform of somewhat too sweeping a character changed the
feelings of the people. Religion came either to be looked at as a severe thing
or as a formal thing; and then followed what Addison has painted too truly in
ARNOTT.] THE BAROMETER. 85
the conclusion of his paper, " the differences and contentions between the par-
son and the squire." In this respect we may earnestly hope that the descrip-
tion ot i he essayist is wholly obsolete.
14. — &{TJC guromctcr.
ARNOTT.
| l'n i. work from which this is transcribed is entitled " Elements of Physics; or,
Natiii.il Philosophy, General and Medical, explained independently of Teehnu -a I
Mathematics." Of this book the first volume was published in 1828, and
passed thioiu;h several editions. "When a portion only of a second volume had
appeared, the following paper on the barometer \vas thus introduced by the edi-
tor of " 1 lall'-l lours : " — " When we consider that this excellent book can only
be completed at the rare intervals of leisure in a most arduous professional life —
that at the moments when the physician is not removing or mitigating the suf-
ferings of individuals, lie is labouring for the great benefit of all by such noble
inventions as the Hydrostatic Bed — we can only hope that the well e. p. tied ie-
pose which wise men look to in the evening of their day, will give opportunity i»i
perfecting one of the books best calculated to advance the education of the
people that the world has seen." The hope thus expressed has been realised
i-nlly by the publication of the work in two volumes, eomprism;; some
of the most important branches of modern science, not included in the original
publications.]
Galileo had found that water would rise under the piston of a
pump to a height only of about thirty-four feet. His pupil Torri-
celli, conceiving the happy thought, that the weight of the atmos-
phere might be the cause of the ascent, concluded that mercury,
whii-h is about thirteen times heavier ilun water, should only rise,
under the same influence, to a thirteenth of the elevation: — he
tried, and found that this was so, and the mercurial barometer was
invented. To afford further evidence that the weight of the
atmosphere was the cause of the phenomenon, he afterwards
carried the tube of mercury to the tops of buildings and of
mountains, and found that it fell always in exact proportion to
the portion of the atmosphere left below it; — and he found that
water-pumps in different situations varied as to sucking power,
according to the same law.
It was soon afterwards discovered, by careful observation of the
mercurial barometer, that even when remaining in the same pla< e,
86 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARNOTT.
it did not always stand at the same elevation ; in other words, that
the weight of atmosphere over any particular part of the earth was
constantly fluctuating.; a truth which, without the barometer,
could never have been suspected. The observation of the instru-
ment being carried still further, it was found that, in serene, dry
weather, the mercury generally stood high, and that before and
during storms and rain it fell ; the instrument, therefore, might
serve as a prophet of the weather, becoming a precious monitor to
the husbandman or the sailor.
The reasons why the barometer falls before wind and rain will
be better understood a few pages hence; but we may remark
here, that when water which has been suspended in the atmos-
phere, and has formed a part of it, separates as rain, the weight
and bulk of the mass, are diminished ; and that wind must occur
when a sudden condensation of aeriform matter, in any situation,
disturbs the equilibrium of the air, for the air around will rush to-
wards the situation of diminished pressure.
To the husbandman the barometer is of considerable use, by
aiding and correcting the prognostics of the weather which he
draws from local signs familiar to him; but its great use as a
weather-glass seems to be to the mariner, who roams over the whole
ocean, and is often under skies and climates altogether new to him.
The watchful captain of the present day, trusting to this extra-
ordinary monitor, is frequently enabled to take in sail and to make
ready for the storm, where, in former times, the dreadful visitation
would have fallen upon him unprepared. The marine barometer
has not yet been in general use for many years, and the author
was one of a numerous crew who probably owed their preservation
to its almost miraculous warning. It was in a southern latitude.
The sun had just set with placid appearance, closing a beautiful
afternoon, and the usual mirth of the evening watch was proceed-
ing, when the captain's order came to prepare with all haste for a
storm. The barometer had begun to fall with appalling rapidity.
As yet, the oldest sailors had not perceived even a threatening in
the sky, and were surprised at the extent and hurry of the prepar-
ations ; but the required measures were not completed when a
ARNOTT.I THE BAROMETER. 87
more awful hurricane burst upon them than the most experienced
had ever braved. Nothing could withstand it ; the sails, already
furled and closely bound to the yards, were riven away in tatters ;
even the bare yards and masts were in great part disabled ; and at
one time the whole rigging had nearly fallen by the board. Such
for a few hours was the mingled roar of the hurricane above, of
the waves around, and of the incessant peals of thunder, that no
human voice could be heard, and amidst the general consterna-
tion, even the trumpet sounded in vain. In that awful night, but
for the little tube of mercury which had given warning, neither the
strength of the noble ship, nor the skill and energies of the com-
mander, could have saved one man to tell the tale. On the fol-
lowing morning the wind was again at rest, but the ship lay upon
the yet heaving waves an unsightly wreck.
The marine barometer differs from that used on shore, in having
its tube contracted in one place to a very narrow bore, so as to
prevent that sudden rising and falling of the mercury which every
motion of the ship would else occasion.
Civilised Europe is now familiar with the barometer and its uses,
and therefore, that Europeans may conceive the first feelings con-
nected with it, they almost require to witness the astonishment or
incredulity with which people of other parts still regard it. A
Chinese, once conversing on the subject with the author, could
only imagine of the barometer that it was a gift of miraculous
nature, which the God of Christians gave them in pity, to direct
them in the long and perilous voyages which they undertook to
unknown seas.
A barometer is of great use to persons employed about those
mines in which hydrogen gas or fire-damp is generated and exists
in the crevices. When the atmosphere becomes unusually light,
the hydrogen, being relieved from a part of the pressure which
ordinarily confines it to its holes and lurking-places, expands or
issues forth to where it may meet the lamp of the miner, and ex-
plode to his destruction. In heavy states of the atmosphere, on
the contrary, it is pressed back to its hiding-places, and the miner
advances with safety.
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARNOTT.
We see from this, that any reservoir or vessel containing air
would itself answer as a barometer if the only opening to it were
through a long tubular neck, containing a close sliding plug, for
then, according to the weight and pressure of the external air, the
density of that in the cavity would vary, and all changes would be
marked by the position of the movable plug. A beautiful baro-
meter has really been made on this principle, by using a vessel of
glass, with a long slender neck, in which a globule of mercury is
the movable plug.
The state of the atmosphere, as to weight, differs so much at
different times in the same situation, as to produce a range of
about three inches in the height of the mercurial barometer, that
is to say, from twenty-eight to thirty-one inches. On the occasion
of the great Lisbon earthquake, however, the mercury fell so far
in the barometers, even in Britain, as to disappear from that por-
tion at the top usually left uncovered for observation. The un-
covered part of a barometer is commonly of five or six inches in
length, with a divided scale attached to it, on which the figures
28, 29, &c., indicate the number of inches from the surface of the
mercury at the bottom to the respective divisions : — on the lower
part of the scale the words wind and rain are generally written,
meaning that, when the mercury sinks to them, wind and rain are
to be expected ; and on the upper part, dry and fine appear, for
a corresponding reason ; but we have to recollect, that it is not
the absolute height of the mercury which indicates the existing or
coming weather, but the recent change in its height : — a falling
barometer usually telling of wind and rain ; a rising one of serene
and dry weather.
The barometer answers another important purpose, besides
that of a weather-glass — in enabling us to ascertain readily the
height of mountains, or of any situation to which it can be
carried.
As the mercurial column in the barometer is always an exact
indication of the tension or pressure produced in the air around
it by the weight of air above its level, being indeed, as explained
in the foregoing paragraphs, of the same weight as a column of
ARNOTT.] THE BAROMETER. 89
the air of equal base with itself, and reaching from it to the
top of the atmosphere — the mercury must fall when the instru-
ment is carried from any lower to any higher situation, and the
degree of falling must always tell exactly how much air has
been left below. For instance, if thirty inches barometrical
height mark the whole atmospheric pressure at the surface
of the ocean, and if the instrument be found, when carried to
some other situation, to stand at only twenty inches, it proves
that one-third of the atmosphere exists below the level of the
new situation. If our atmospheric ocean were of as uniform
density all the way up as our watery oceans, a certain weight of
air thus left behind in ascending would mark everywhere a change
of level nearly equal, and the ascertaining any height by the baro-
meter would become one of the most simple of calculations : — the
air at the surface of the earth being about twelve thousand times
lighter than its bulk of mercury, an inch rise or fall of the baro-
meter would mark everywhere a rise or a fall in the atmosphere of
twelve thousand inches or one thousand feet. But owing to the
elasticity of air, which causes it to increase in volume as it escapes
from pressure, the atmosphere is rarer in proportion as we ascend,
so that to leave a given weight of it behind, the ascent must be
greater, the higher the situation where the experiment is made;
the rule therefore of one inch of mercury for a thousand feet,
holds only for rough estimates near the surface of the earth. The
precise calculation, however, for any case, is still very easy; and a
good barometer, with a thermometer attached, and with tables, or
an algebraical formula expressing all the influencing circumstances,
enables us to ascertain elevations much more easily, and in many
cases more correctly, than by trigonometrical survey.
The weight of the whole atmospherical ocean surrounding the
earth being equal to that of a watery ocean of thirty-four feet deep,
or of a covering of mercury of thirty inches, and the air found at
the surface of the earth being eight hundred and forty times lighter
than water, if the same density existed all the way up, the atmos-
phere would be 34 times 840, or about 28,000 feet high, which is
equal to five miles and a half. On account of the greater rarity,
90 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
however, in the superior regions, it really extends to a height of
nearly fifty miles. From the known laws of aerial elasticity, we
can deduce what is found to hold in fact, that one half of all the
air constituting our atmosphere exists within three miles and a
half from the earth's surface ; that is to say, under the level of the
summit of Mont Blanc. A person, unaccustomed to calculation,
would suppose the air to be more equally distributed through the
fifty miles than this rule indicates, as he might at first also suppose
a tube of two feet diameter to hold only twice as much as a tube
of one foot, although in reality it holds four times as much.
In carrying a barometer from the level of the Thames to the
top of St Paul's Church in London, or of Hampstead Hill, the mer-
cury falls about half an inch, marking an ascent of about five
hundred feet. On Mont Blanc it falls to half of the entire baro-
metric height, marking an elevation of fifteen thousand feet ; and
in Du Luc's famous balloon ascent it fell to below twelve inches,
indicating an elevation of twenty-one thousand feet, the greatest
to which man has ever ascended from the surface of his earthly
habitation.
The extreme rarity of the air on high mountains must of course
affect animals. A person breathing on the summit of Mont
Blanc, although expanding his chest as much as usual, really takes
in at each inspiration only half as much air as he does below —
exhibiting a contrast to a man in a diving-bell, who at thirty-four
feet under water is breathing air of double density, at sixty-eight
feet of triple, and so on. It is known that travellers, and even
their practised guides, often fall down suddenly as if struck by
lightning, when approaching lofty summits, on account chiefly of
the thinness of the air which they are breathing, and some minutes
elapse before they recover. In the elevated plains of South
America the inhabitants have larger chests than the inhabitants
of lower regions — another admirable instance of the animal frame
adapting itself to the circumstances in which it is placed. It
appears from all this, that although our atmosphere be fifty miles
high, it is so thin beyond three miles and a half, that mountain
ridges of greater elevation are nearly as effectual barriers between
HERBERT.] SUNDAY. 9 1
nations of men, as islands or rocky ridges in the sea are between
the finny tribes inhabiting the opposite coasts.
15.—
HERBERT.
[GEORGE HERBERT, the fifth brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, was
born in 1593 j he died in 1632. His character as a minister was full of Chris-
tian graces. He belonged to the same class of clergymen as Hooker — devoted
to pastoral duties — enthusiastic in his reverence for the offices of the Church.
His religious poetry used to be neglected for its quaintness ; but the present
age has restored it to its proper rank amongst the writers who have left us
gems which antiquity cannot rust. The poem which we give has a peculiar
interest in being his death-bed song, as we learn from the following narrative
of Isaac Walton : —
" In this time of his decay, he was often visited and prayed for by all the
clergy that lived near to him, especially by his friends the Bishop and Prebends
of the Cathedral Church in Salisbury; but by none more devoutly than his
wife, his three nieces, (then a part of his family,) and Mr Woodnot, who were
the sad witnesses of his daily decay ; to whom he would often speak to this
purpose: — 'I now look back upon the pleasures of my life past, and see the
content I have taken in beauty, in wit, in music, and pleasant conversation,
are now all past by me, like a dream, or as a shadow that returns not, and
are now all become dead to me, or I to them ; and I see that as my father and
generation hath done before me, so I also shall now suddenly (with Job) make
my bed also in the dark ; and I praise God I am prepared for it ; and I praise
Him that I am not to learn patience, now I stand in such need of it, and that
I have practised mortification, and endeavoured to die daily, that I might not
die eternally ; and my hope is, that I shall shortly leave this valley of tears,
and be free from all fevers and pain ; and, which will be a more happy condi-
tion, I shall be free from sin, and all the temptations and anxieties that attend
it; and this being past, I shall dwell in the New Jerusalem, dwell there with
men made perfect, dwell where these eyes shall see my Master and Saviour
Jesus : and with Him see my dear mother, and all my relations and friends.
But I must die, or not come to that happy place ; and this is my content, that
I am going daily towards it, and that every day which I have lived hath taken
a part of my appointed time from me, and that I shall live the less time for
having lived this, and the day past.' These, and the like expressions, which
he uttered often, may be said to be his enjoyment of heaven before he
enjoyed it. The Sunday before his death he rose suddenly from his bed or
couch, called for one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and said, ' My
God, my God,
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[HERBERT
" « My music shall find Thee,
And every string
Shall have his attribute to sing :'
And having tuned it, he played and sung : —
* The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.' "
O day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th' indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ;
The couch of time, Care's balm and bay ;
The week were dark but for thy light :
Thy torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou
Make up one man ; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow :
The worky-days are the back-part ;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.
Man had straight forward gone
To endless death : but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still ;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which He doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are
On which Heaven's palace arched lies :
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful bed and borders
In God's rich garden : that is bare
Which parts their ranks and
orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope,
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.
BACON.]
THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK.
93
PERKIN WARBECK TAKING SANCTUARY.
16.—
Ii;si0rg of IBjerkm Macrfock.
BACON.
[FRANCIS BACON is one of the most prominent names in English literature.
His "Essays" are in the hands of many persons ; his " Novum Organon" is
talked of by more. He is execrated as the conupt judge and faithless friend ;
he is venerated under the name of the father of the inductive philosophy. His
foibles, as well as his merits, have been perhaps equally exaggerated. This is
not the place to enter upon the disputed passages of his political career ; nor
to inquire how much he borrowed from the ancient philosophy, which he is
supposed to have overturned. That he was a man, in many respects, of the
very highest order of intellect no one can doubt ; that he was ' ' the wisest,
greatest, meanest of mankind," may be safely disputed. It is sufficient here
to mention that he was the youngest son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, Keeper of the
Great Seal— was born in 1561, and died in 1626. The following extract is
from his "History of Henry VII." — a book much neglected, although a
remarkable specimen of clear and vivid narrative, and judicious reflection.
Those who desire to obtain a general knowledge of the writings of Bacon, es-
pecially with his philosophical works, cannot do better than study them in the
masterly Analysis by Mr Craik, originally published in " Knight's Weekly
Volume." The complete works have been produced in a new edition by Mr
Spedding, upon which the editor has bestowed an amount of critical labour
very rarely equalled in fulness of research and comprehensive illustration.]
This youth of whom we are now to speak was such a mercurial
as the like hath seldom been known, and could make ms own
part if at any time he chanced to be out. Wherefore, this being
94 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
one of the strangest examples of a personation that ever was in
elder or later times, it deserveth to be discovered and related at
the full — although the king's manner of showing things by pieces
and by dark lights hath so muffled it, that it hath been left almost
as a mystery to this day.
The Lady Margaret,* whom the king's friends called Juno,
because she was to him as Juno was to ^Eneas, stirring both
heaven and hell to do him mischief, for a foundation of her par-
ticular practices against him, did continually, by all means pos-
sible, nourish, maintain, and divulge the flying opinion that
Richard, Duke of York, second son to Edward the Fourth,
was not murdered in the Tower, as was given out, but saved
alive. For that those who were employed in that barbarous act,
having destroyed the elder brother, were stricken with remorse
and compassion towards the younger, and set him privily at
liberty to seek his fortune
There was a townsman of Tournay, that had borne office in that
town, whose name was John Osbeck, a convert Jew, married to
Catherine de Faro, whose business drew him to live for a time
with his wife at London, in King Edward the Fourth's days.
During which time he had a son by her, and being known in the
court, the king, either out of a religious nobleness, because he was
a convert, or upon some private acquaintance, did him the honour
to be godfather to his child, and named him Peter. But after-
wards, proving a dainty and effeminate youth, he was commonly
called by the diminutive of his name Peterkin or Perkin. For as
for the name of Warbeck, it was given him when they did but
guess at it, before examinations had been taken. But yet he had
been so much talked of by that name, as it stuck by him after his
true name of Osbeck was known. While he was a young child,
his parents returned with him to Tournay. There he was placed
in the house of a kinsman of his, called John Stenbeck, at
Antwerp, and so roved up and down between Antwerp and
Tournay, and other towns of Flanders for a good time, living
* Sister to Edward IV., and widow of Charles k Tlmtraire, Duke of Bur-
gundy.
BACON.] THE HISTORY OF PER KIN WAR BECK. 95
much in English company and having the English tongue perfect.
In which time, being grown a comely youth, he was brought by
some of the espials of the Lady Margaret into her presence.
Who, viewing him well, and seeing that he had a face and per-
sonage that would bear a noble fortune, and finding him otherwise
of a fine spirit and winning behaviour, thought she had now found
a curious piece of marble to carve out an image of a Duke of
York. She kept him by her a great while, but with extreme
secrecy. The while she instructed him by many cabinet con-
ferences. First, in princely behaviour and gesture, teaching him
how he should keep state, and yet with a modest sense of his
-misfortunes. Then she informed him of all the circumstances
and particulars that concerned the person of Richard, Duke of
York, which he was to act, describing unto him the personages,
lineaments, and features of the king and queen, his pretended
parents; and of his brother and sisters, and divers others, that
were nearest him in his childhood; together with all passages,
some secret, some common, that were fit for a child's memory,
until the death of King Edward. Then she added the par-
ticulars of the time from the king's death, until he and his
brother were committed to the Tower, as well during the time he
was abroad as while he was in sanctuary. As for the times while
he was in the Tower, and the manner of his brother's death, and
his own escape, she knew they were things that a very few could
control. And therefore she taught him only to tell a smooth and
likely tale of those matters, warning him not to vary from it. It
was agreed likewise between them what account he should give of
his peregrination abroad, intermixing many things which were
true, and such as they knew others could testify, for the credit of
the rest, but still making them to hang together with the part he
was to play. She taught him likewise how to avoid sundry cap-
tious and tempting questions which were like to be asked of him.
But in this she found him so nimble and shifting, as she trusted
much to his own wit and readiness, and therefore laboured the
less in it. Lastly, she raised his thoughts with some present
rewards, and further promises, setting before him chiefly the glory
96 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACOK.
and fortune of a crown if things went well, and a sure refuge to
her court if the worst should fall. After such time as she thought
he was perfect in his lesson, she began to cast with herself from
what coast this blazing star should first appear, and at what time
it must be upon the horizon of Ireland, for there had the like
meteor strong influence before. The time of the apparition to be
when the king should be engaged in a war with France. But well
she knew that whatsoever should come from her would be held
suspected. And therefore if he should go out of Flanders imme-
diately into Ireland, she might be thought to have some hand in
it. And besides, the time was not yet ripe, for that the two kings
were then upon terms of peace. Therefore she wheeled about ;
and to put all suspicion afar off, and loath to keep him any longer
by her, for that she knew secrets are not long-lived, she sent him
unknown into Portugal, with the Lady Brampton, an English
lady, that embarked for Portugal at that time, with some privado
of her own, to have an eye upon him, and there he was to remain,
and to expect her further directions. In the mean time she
omitted not to prepare things for his better welcome and accept-
ing, not only in the kingdom of Ireland, but in the court of
France. He continued in Portugal about a year, and by that
time the King of England called his parliament, as hath been
said, and declared open war against France. Now did the sign
reign, and the constellation was come, under which Perkin should
appear. And therefore he was straight sent unto by the duchess
to go for Ireland, according to the first designment In Ireland
he did arrive, at the town of Cork. When he was thither come,
his own tale was, when he made his confession afterwards, that
the Irishmen, finding him in some good clothes, came flocking
about him, and bare him down that he was the Duke of Clarence
that had been there before. And after, that he was Richard the
Third's base son. And lastly, that he was Richard, Duke of
York, second son to Edward the Fourth. But that he, for his
part, renounced all these things, and offered to swear upon the
Holy Evangelists that he was no such man ; till at last they
forced it upon him, and bade him fear nothing, and so forth.
BACON.] THE HI-STORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 97
But the truth is, that immediately upon his coming into Ireland,
he took upon him the said person of the Duke of York, and
drew unto him complices and partakers by all the means he could
devise. Insomuch as he wrote his letters unto the Earls of
Desmond and Kildare, to come in to his aid, and be of his party;
the originals of which letters are yet extant.
Somewhat before this time, the duchess had also gained unto
her a near servant of King Henry's own, one Stephen Frion, his
secretary for the French tongue ; an active man, but turbulent
and discontented. This Frion had fled over to Charles, the
French king, and put himself into his service, at such time as he
began to be in open enmity with the king. Now King Charles,
when he understood of the person and attempts of Perkin, ready
of himself to embrace all advantages against the King of Eng-
land, instigated by Frion, and formerly prepared by the Lady
Margaret, forthwith despatched one Lucas and this Frion, in the
nature of ambassadors to Perkin, to advertise him of the king's
good inclination to him, and that he was resolved to aid him to
recover his right against King Henry, an usurper of England, and
an enemy of France ; and wished him to come over unto him at
Paris. Perkin thought himself in heaven now that he was invited
by so great a king in so honourable a manner. And imparting
unto his friends in Ireland, for their encouragement, how fortune
called him, and what great hopes he had, sailed presently into
France. When he was come to the court of France, the king
received him with great honour, saluted and styled him by the
name of the Duke of York : lodged him and accommodated him
in great state. And the better to give him the representation and
the countenance of a prince, assigned him a guard for his person,
whereof Lord Congresall was captain. The courtiers likewise,
though it be ill mocking with the French, applied themselves to
their king's bent, seeing there was reason of state for it. At the
same time there repaired unto Perkin divers Englishmen of
quality : Sir George Neville, Sir John Taylor, and about one
hundred more, and amongst the rest this Stephen Frion, of whom
we spake, who followed his fortune both then and for a long time
VOL. i. G
98 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
after, and was, indeed, his principal counsellor and instrument
in all his proceedings. But all this on the French king's part was
but a trick, the better to bow King Henry to peace. And there-
fore, upon the first grain of incense that was sacrificed upon
the altar of peace at Boloign, Perkin was smoked away. Yet
would not the French king deliver him up to King Henry,
as he was laboured to do, for his honour's sake, but warned
him away and dismissed him. And Perkin, on his part, was
ready to be gone, doubting he might be caught up underhand.
He therefore took his way into Flanders, unto the Duchess of
Burgundy, pretending that, having been variously tossed by for-
tune, he directed his course thither as to a safe harbour, noways
taking knowledge that he had ever been there before, but as if
that had been his first address. The duchess, on the other part,
made it as new strange to see him, pretending, at the first, that
she was taught and made wise, by the example of Lambert Simnell,
how she did admit of any counterfeit stuff, though, even in that,
she said she was not fully satisfied. She pretended at the first,
and that was ever in the presence of others, to pose him and sift
him, thereby to try whether he were indeed the very Duke of York
or no. But seeming to receive full satisfaction by his answers, she
then feigned herself to be transported with a kind of astonishment,
mixed of joy and wonder, at his miraculous deliverance, receiving
him as if he were risen from death to life, and inferring that God,
who had in such wonderful manner preserved him from death,
did likewise reserve him for some great and prosperous fortune.
As for his dismission out of France, they interpreted it, not as if
he were detected or neglected for a counterfeit deceiver, but con-
trariwise, that it did show manifestly unto the world that he was
some great matter, for that it was his abandoning that, in effect,
made the peace, being no more but the sacrificing of a poor
distressed prince unto the utility and ambition of two mighty
monarchs. Neither was Perkin, for his part, wanting to himself,
either in gracious or princely behaviour, or in ready or apposite
answers, or in contenting and caressing those that did apply
themselves unto him, or in petty scorn and disdain to those that
BACON.] THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 99
seemed to doubt of him ; but in all things did notably acquit him-
self, insomuch as it was generally believed, as well amongst great
persons as amongst the vulgar, that he was indeed Duke Richard.
Nay, himself, with long and continued counterfeiting, and with oft
telling a lie, was turned by habit almost into the thing he seemed
to be, and from a liar to a believer. The duchess, therefore, as in
a case out of doubt, did him all princely honour, calling him always
by the name of her nephew, and giving the delicate title of the
white rose of England, and appointed him a guard of thirty per-
sons, halberdiers, clad in a party-coloured livery of murry and blue,
to attend his person. Her court, likewise, and generally the
-Dutch and strangers, in their usage towards him, expressed no
less respect.
The news hereof came blazing and thundering over into Eng-
land, that the Duke of York was sure alive. As for the name of
Perkin Warbeck, it was not at that time come to light, but all the
news ran upon the Duke of York ; that he had been entertained
in Ireland, bought and sold in France, and was now plainly avowed
and in great honour in Flanders. These fames took hold of
divers ; in some upon discontent, in some upon ambition, in some
upon levity and desire of change, and in some few upon con-
science and belief, but in most upon simplicity, and in divers out
of dependence upon some of the better sort, who did in secret
favour and nourish these bruits. And it was not long ere these
rumours of novelty had begotten others of scandal and murmur
against the king and his government, taxing him for a great taxer
of his people, and discountenancer of his nobility. The loss of
Britain and the peace with France were not forgotten. But chiefly
they fell upon the wrong that he did his queen, in that he did not
reign in her right Wherefore, they said, that God had now
brought to light a masculine branch of the House of York, that
would not be at his courtesy, howsoever he did depress his poor
lady. And yet, as it fareth with things which are current with the
multitude, and which they effect, these fames grew so general, as
the authors were lost in the generality of the speakers ; they being
like running weeds that have no certain root, or like footings up
100 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
and down, impossible to be traced. But after a while these ill
humours drew to a head, and settled secretly in some eminent
persons, which were Sir William Stanley, lord chamberlain of the
king's household, the Lord Fitzwater, Sir Simon Mountfort, and
Sir Thomas Thwaites. These entered into a secret conspiracy
to favour Duke Richard's title. Nevertheless none engaged their
fortunes in this business openly, but two, Sir Robert Clifford and
Master William Barley, who sailed over into Flanders, sent, indeed,
from the party of the conspirators here, to understand the truth
of those things that passed there, and not without some help of
moneys from hence ; provisionally to be delivered, if they found
and were satisfied that there was truth in these pretences. The
person of Sir Robert Clifford, being a gentleman of fame and
family, was extremely welcome to the Lady Margaret, who, after
she had conference with him, brought him to the sight of Perkin,
with whom he had often speech and discourse. So that in the
end, won either by the duchess to affect, or by Perkin to believe,
he wrote back into England, that he knew the person of Richard
Duke of York as well as he knew his own, and that this young
man was undoubtedly he. By this means all things grew prepared
to revolt and sedition here, and the conspiracy came to have a
correspondence between Flanders and England.
The king, on his part, was not asleep, but to arm or levy forces
yet, he thought, would but show fear, and do this idol too much
worship. Nevertheless the ports he did shut up, or at least kept
a watch on them, that none should pass to or fro that was sus-
pected : but for the rest, he chose to work by countermines. His
purposes were two ; the one to lay open the abuse, the other to break
the knot of the conspirators. To detect the abuse there were but two
ways : the first, to make it manifest to the world that the Duke of
York was indeed murdered ; the other to prove that, were he dead
or alive, yet Perkin was a counterfeit. For the first, thus it stood.
There were but four persons that could speak upon knowledge
to the murder of the Duke of York: Sir James Tirrell, the employed
man from King Richard ; John Dighton and Miles Forrest, his
servants, the two butchers or tormentors, and the priest of the
SACON.] THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. IOI
Tower that buried them. Of which four, Miles Forrest and the
priest were dead, and there remained alive only Sir James Tirrell
and John Dighton. These two the king caused to be committed
to the Tower, and examined touching the manner of the death of
the two innocent princes. They agreed both in a tale, as the
king gave out, to this effect : that King Richard having directed
his warrant for the putting of them to death to Brackenbury, the
lieutenant of the Tower, was by him refused. Whereupon the
king directed his warrant to Sir James Tirrell, to receive the keys
of the Tower from the lieutenant, for the space of a night, for the
king's special service. That Sir James Tirrell accordingly re-
paired to the Tower by night, attended by his two servants afore-
named, whom he had chosen for that purpose. That himself
stood at the stair-foot, and sent these two villains to execute the
murder. That they smothered them in their beds, and that done,
called up their master to see their naked dead bodies, which they
had laid forth. That they were buried under the stairs, and some
stones cast upon them. That when the report was made to
King Richard that his will was done, he gave Sir James Tirrell
great thanks, but took exception to the place of their burial, being
too base for them that were king's children. Whereupon another
night, by the king's warrant renewed, their bodies were removed
by the priest of the Tower, and buried by him in some place which,
by means of the priest's death soon after, could not be known.
Thus much was then delivered abroad to be the effect of those
examinations ; but the king, nevertheless, made no use of them
in any of his declarations, whereby, as it seems, those examina-
tions left the business somewhat perplexed. And as for Sir James
Tirrell, he was soon after beheaded in the Tower-yard for other
matters of treason. But John Dighton, who, it seemeth, spake
best for the king, was forthwith set at liberty, and was the prin-
cipal means of divulging this tradition. Therefore, this kind of
proof being left so naked, the king used the more diligence in the
latter, for the tracing of Perkin. To this purpose he sent abroad
into several parts, and especially into Flanders, divers secret and
nimble scouts and spies, some feigning themselves to fly over
102 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
unto Perkin, and to adhere to him, and some under other pre-
tence, to learn, search, and discover all the circumstances and
particulars of Perkin's parents, birth, person, travels up and down,
and in brief, to have a journal, as it were, of his life and doings. . . .
Others he employed in a more special nature and trust, to be his
pioneers in the main countermine.
The narrative then describes the countenance which James IV. of Scotland
gave to Perkin ; his marriage to Lady Catherine Gordon ; the inroad of James
upon the northern counties, carrying the pretended prince with him ; and the
events of the Cornish insurrection, all which circumstances greatly alarmed the
politic Henry VII.
The king of Scotland, though he would not formally retract his
judgment of Perkin, wherein he had engaged himself so far ; yet
in his private opinion, upon often speech with the Englishmen,
and divers other advertisements, began to suspect him for a coun-
terfeit. Wherefore in a noble fashion he called him unto him,
and recounted the benefits and favours that he had done him in
making him his ally, and in provoking a mighty and opulent king
by an offensive war in his quarrel, for the space of two years to-
gether; nay more, that he had refused an honourable peace,
whereof he had a fair offer, if he would have delivered him ; and
that, to keep his promise with him, he had deeply offended both
his nobles and people whom he might not hold in any long discon-
tent ; and therefore required him to think of his own fortunes, and
to choose out some fitter place for his exile ; telling him withal,
that he could not say but that the English had forsaken him be-
fore the Scottish, for that, upon two several trials, none had de-
clared themselves on his side ; but nevertheless he would make
good what he said to him at his first receiving, which was that he
should not repent him for putting himself into his hands .; for that
he would not cast him off, but help him with shipping and means
to transport him where he should desire. Perkin, not descending
at all from his stage-like greatness, answered the king in few words,
that he saw his time was not yet come ; but whatsoever his for-
tunes were, he should both think and speak honour of the king.
Taking his leave, he would not think on Flanders, doubting it was
BACON.]- THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WAR BECK. 103
but hollow ground for him since the treaty of the arch-duke, con-
cluded the year before; but took his lady, and such followers as
would not leave him, and sailed over into Ireland
When Perkin heard this news, [the Cornwall insurrection,] he
began to take heart again, and advised upon it with his council,
which were principally three — Herne, a mercer, that fled for debt ;
Skelton, a tailor ; and Astley, a scrivener ; for Secretary Frion was
gone. These told him that he was mightily overseen, both when
he went into Kent, and when he went into Scotland — the one
being a place so near London, and under the king's nose ; and
the other a nation so distasted with the people of England, that
if they had loved him never so well, yet they could never have
taken his part in that company. But if he had been so happy as
to have been in Cornwall at the first, when the people began to
take arms there, he had been crowned at Westminster before this
time ; for these kings, as he had now experience, would sell poor
princes for shoes. But he must rely wholly upon people ; and
therefore advised him to sail over with all possible speed into
Cornwall ; which accordingly he did, having in his company four
small barques, with some six score or sevenscore fighting men. He
arrived in September at Whitsand Bay, and forthwith came to Bod-
min, the blacksmith's town ; where they assembled unto him to the
number of three thousand men of the rude people. There he set
forth a new proclamation, stroking the people with fair promises,
and humouring them with invectives against the king and his
government. And as it fareth with smoke, that never loseth itself
till it be at the highest, he did now before his end raise his style,
entitling himself no more Richard, Duke of York, but Richard the
Fourth, King of England. His council advised him by all means
to make himself master of some good walled town ; as well to
make his men find the sweetness of rich spoils, and to allure to
htm all loose and lost people, by like hopes of booty as to be a
sure retreat to his forces, in case they should have any ill day, or
unlucky chance of the field. Wherefore they took heart to them,
and went on, and besieged the city of Exeter, the principal town
for strength and wealth in those parts
104 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
Perkin, hearing this thunder of arms, and preparations against
saim from so many parts, raised his siege, and marched to Taun-
ton; beginning already to squint one eye upon the crown and
another upon the sanctuary; though the Cornish men were
become, like metal often fired and quenched, churlish, and that
would sooner break than bow ; swearing and vowing not to leave
him, till the uttermost drop of their blood were spilt. He was at
his rising from Exeter between six and seven thousand strong,
many having come unto him after he was set before Exeter, upon
fame of so great an enterprise, and to partake of the spoil; though
upon the raising of his siege some did slip away. When he was
come near Taunton, he dissembled all fear, and seemed all the
day to use diligence in preparing all things ready to fight. But
about midnight he fled with three score horses to Bewdley,* in the
New Forest, where he and divers of his company registered them-
selves sanctuary-men, leaving his Cornish men to the four winds;
but yet thereby easing them of their vow, and using his wonted
compassion, not to be by when his subjects' blood should be spilt.
The king, as soon as he heard of Perkin's flight, sent presently
five hundred horse to pursue and apprehend him, before he
should get either to the sea, or to that same little island called a
sanctuary. But they came too late for the latter of these. There-
fore all they could do was to beset the sanctuary, and to maintain
a strong watch about it, till the king's pleasure were further known.
[Perkin at last gave himself up.]
Perkin was brought into the king's court,, but not to the king's
presence; though the king, to satisfy his curiosity, saw him some-
times out of a window, or in passage. He was in show at liberty,
but guarded with all care and watch that was possible, and willed
to follow the king to London. But from his first appearance upon
the stage in his new person of a sycophant or juggler, instead of
his former person of a prince, all men may think how he was
exposed to the derision not only of the courtiers, but also of the
common people, who flocked about him as he went along; that
one might know afar off where the owl was by the flight of birds;
* The Abbey of Beaulieu, near Southampton.
BACON.] THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 10$
some mocking, some wondering, some cursing, some prying and
picking matter out of his countenance and gesture to talk of; so
that the false honour and respects, which he had so long enjoyed,
was plentifully repaid in scorn and contempt. As soon as he was
come to London the king gave also the city the solace of this
May-game; for he was conveyed leisurely on horseback, but not
in any ignominious fashion, through Cheapside and Cornhill,
to the Tower, and from thence back again unto Westminster,
with the churm of a thousand taunts and reproaches. But to
amend the show, there followed a little distance of Perkin, an
inward counsellor of his, one that had been serjeant farrier to the
king. This fellow, when Perkin took sanctuary, chose rather to
take an holy habit than an holy place, and clad himself like an
hermit, and in that weed wandered about the country, till he was
discovered and taken. But this man was bound hand and foot
upon the horse, and came not back with Perkin, but was left at
the Tower, and within few days after executed. Soon after, now
that Perkin could tell better what himself was, he was diligently
examined ; and after his confession taken, an extract was made
of such parts of them as were thought fit to be divulged, which
was printed and dispersed abroad ; wherein the king did himself
no right; for as there was a laboured tale of particulars, of
Perkin's father and mother, and grandsire and grandmother, and
uncles and cousins, by names and sirnames, and from what places
he travelled up and down; so there was little or nothing to
purpose of anything concerning his designs, or any practices that
had been held with him; nor the Duchess of Burgundy herself,
that all the world did take knowledge of, as the person that had
put life and being into the whole business, so much as named or
pointed at. So that men, missing of that they looked for, looked
about for they knew not what; and were in more doubt than
before; but the king chose rather not to satisfy than to kindle
coals.
It was not long but Perkin, who was made of quicksilver,
which is hard to hold or imprison, began to stir. For deceiving
his keepers, he took him to his heels, and made speed to the sea-
I06 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BACON.
coasts. But presently all corners were laid for him, and such
diligent pursuit and search made, as he was fain to turn back,
and get him to the house of Bethlehem, called the priory of
Sheen, (which had the privilege of sanctuary,) and put himself
into the hands of the prior of that monastery. The prior was
thought an holy man, and much reverenced in those days. He
came to the king, and besought the king for Perkin's life only,
leaving him otherwise to the king's discretion Many about the
king were again more hot than ever, to have the king take him
forth and hang him. But the king, that had an high stomach,
and could not hate any that he despised, bid, "Take him forth,
and set the knave in the stocks ;" and so promising the prior his
life, he caused him to be brought forth. And within two or three
days after, upon a scaffold set up in the palace court at West-
minster, he was fettered and set in the stocks for the whole day.
And the next day after the like was done by him at the cross in
Cheapside, and in both places he read his confession, of which
we made mention before; and was from Cheapside conveyed and
laid up in the Tower
But it was ordained that this winding-ivy of a Plantagenet
should kill the true tree itself. For Perkin after he had been
a while in the Tower, began to insinuate himself into the favour
and kindness of his keepers, servants of the lieutenant of the
Tower, Sir John Digby, being four in number — Strangeways,
Blewet, Astwood, and Long Roger. These varlets, with moun-
tains of promises, he sought to corrupt, to obtain his escape; but
knowing well that his own fortunes were made so contemptible as
he could feed no man's hopes, and by hopes he must work, for
rewards he had none, he had contrived with himself a vast and
tragical plot; which was, to draw into his company Edward
Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, then prisoner in the Tower; whom
the weary life of a long imprisonment, and the often and renewing
fears of being put to death, had softened to take any impression
of counsel for his liberty. This young prince he thought these
servants would look upon, though not upon himself; and there-
fore, after that by some message by one or two of them, he had
BACON.] THE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 1 07
tasted of the earl's consent, it was agreed that these four should
murder their master, the lieutenant, secretly, in the night, and
make their best of such money and portable goods of his, as they
should find ready at hand, and get the keys of the Tower, and
presently let forth Perkin and the earl. But this conspiracy was
revealed in time, before it could be executed. And in this again
the opinion of the king's great wisdom did surcharge him with a
sinister fame, that Perkin was but his bait, to entrap the Earl of
Warwick. And in the very instant while this conspiracy was in
working, as if that also had been the king's industry, it was fated
that there should break forth a counterfeit Earl of Warwick, a
-cordwainer's son, whose name was Ralph Wilford ; a young man
taught and set on by an Augustin friar, called Patrick. They both
from the parts of Suffolk came forwards into Kent, where they did
not only privily and underhand give out that this Wilford was the
true Earl of Warwick, but also the friar, finding some light cre-
dence in the people, took the boldness in the pulpit to declare as
much, and to incite the people to come in to his aid. Whereupon
they were both presently apprehended, and the young fellow
executed, and the friar condemned to perpetual imprisonment.
This also happening so opportunely, to represent the danger to
the king's estate from the Earl of Warwick, and thereby to colour
the king's severity that followed ; together with the madness of the
friar so vainly and desperately to divulge a treason before it had
gotten any manner of strength ; and the saving of the friar's life,
which nevertheless was, indeed, but the privilege of his order; and
the pity in the common people, which if it run in a strong stream,
doth ever cast up scandal and envy, made it generally rather
talked than believed that all was but the king's device. But
howsoever it were, hereupon Perkin, that had offended against
grace now the third time, was at the last proceeded with, and by
commissioners of oyer and determiner, arraigned at Westminster,
upon divers treasons committed and perpetrated after his coming
on land within this kingdom, for so the judges advised, for that he
was a foreigner, and condemned, and a few days after executed at
Tyburn; where he did again openly read his confession, and take
I08 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CRABBE.
it upon his death to be true. This was the end of this little
cockatrice of a king, that was able to destroy those that did not
espy him first. It was one of the longest plays of that kind that
had been in memory, and might perhaps have had another end, if
he had not met with a king both wise, stout, and fortunate.
CRABBE.
[CRABBE has been called the Teniers of poetry ; by which title it is meant to
be conveyed that he painted the minute 'details of low life with a brilliant
fidelity. There is something more in Crabbe than we find in the Dutch
painter. He exhibits, indeed, the coarse pleasures of the poor — he has scenes
of boisterous merriment and sottish degradation ; — but he is also the painter of
the strong passions and deep feelings that belong to the common nature of the
humble and the great. If he had sufficiently kept his power of delineating
character within the limits of pleasurable effects — the greatest test of all high
art — if he had not too frequently revelled in descriptions that only excite
unmixed disgust — he would have been the Wilkie of poetry — a much higher
order of artist than the whole race of Tenierses, and Ostades, and Jan Steens.
Crabbe will always be a popular poet, to a certain extent; — although the
chances are that as real poetry comes to be better understood, a great deal that
he has written will be forgotten and neglected. It was said in his praise, by
Mr Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review in 1810, "His characters and inci-
dents are as common as the elements out of which they are compounded are
humble ; and not only has he nothing1 prodigious or astonishing in any of
his representations, but he has not even attempted to impart any of the
ordinary colours of poetry to these vulgar materials. He has no moralising
swains or sentimental tradesmen." This is a sarcasm against the poetry of
Wordsworth, which it was then the fashion to sneer at. It would not be
difficult to show that the "moralising swains and sentimental tradesmen" are
really as true to our higher nature — that nature with which poetry has especially
to deal — as "the depraved, abject, diseased, and neglected poor — creatures in
whom everything amiable or respectable has been extinguished by sordid
passions or brutal debauchery" — are revolting accidents which poetry ought to
avoid. Indeed, if Crabbe had not higher delineations than such as these,
(which are too common in his writings,) he would not take the rank which he
deservedly holds amongst English poets. It is where he does approach to the
despised moralists and sentimentalists of another school, that he has the best
assurance of an undying fame.
George Crabbe was the son of a humble tradesman at Aldborough, in
Suffolk. He was born in 1754. He was apprenticed to a surgeon; but his
CRABBE.] THE ANCIENT MANSION. 109
father was unable to afford the means of completing his professional education.
In 1 780, he went to London, a literary adventurer ; sustained many hardships
and mortifications ; was finally rescued from poverty by the kindness of
Edmund Burke ; entered the Church ; and enjoyed competence and universal
esteem till his death in 1832. His collected works, with a life by his son, in
eight volumes, were published in 1834.]
" Come, lead me, lassie, to the shade, Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
Where willows grow beside the brook ; But they 're a social multitude. "
For well I know the sound it made
When dashing o'er the stony rill— " The rooks are shot, the trees are
It murmur'd to St Osyth's Mill." fell'd,
., , And nest and nursery all expell'd :
The lass replied — " The trees are fled, ,,,. r
„, , t . , . , ' With better fate the giant-tree,
They ve cut the brook a straighter bed : ~,j ^ , , ^ , .
,, , . Old Bulmer s Oak, is gone to sea.
No shades the present lords allow, „,, , ,
The church-way walk is now no more,
I he miller only murmurs now ; . , , ,
The waters now his mill forsake, £jd ™" ™ ° f WaySfCXPlore :
And form a pond they call a lake." I^!1 *1S md"?d prom° !°n SamS'
r or this the park s new wall contains ;
"Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on, And here, I fear, we shall not meet
And to the holy water bring ; A shade— although, perchance, a seat."
A cup is fasten'd to the stone,
And I would taste the healing spring, " Oh, then, my lassie, lead the way
That soon its rocky cist forsakes, To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn :
And green its mossy passage makes." That something holds, if we can pay — •
" The holy spring is turn'd aside, Old David is our living kin »
The arch is gone, the stream is dried ; A servant once, he still preserves
The plough has levell'd all around, ' His name» and » his office serves ! "
And here is now no holy ground."
" Alas ! that mine should be the fate
" Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps old David,s sorrows to rdate .
But they were brief; not long before
To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak, He died> his office was no mor6}
Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide, The kennel stands upon the groundj
And part the church-way lane o'er- With something of the former sound !"
look.
A boy, I climb'd the topmost bough, „ oh> ^ ,, the ievi man Hed
And I would feel its shadow now. „ No fartherj lassie> kt me gtray .
" Or, lassie, lead me to the west, Here 's nothing left of ancient pride,
Where grew the elm-trees thick and Of what was grand, of what was gay;
tall, But all is changed, is lost, is sold —
Where rooks unnumber'd build their All, all that 's left, is chilling cold;
nest — I seek for comfort here in vain,
Deliberate birds, and prudent all ; Then lead me to my cot again ! "
110 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SwiFT.
18.— §|p Spitor rofr % §**.
SWIFT.
[The following extract will give some notion of the vein of the famous Dean
of St Patrick's. But no adequate notion can be afforded by extracts. " Gulli-
ver's Travels," offensive as it is in many respects, may be in the hands of every
reader for a shilling or two ; and there, and perhaps better even in " The Tale
of a Tub," may be fitly learnt the great powers of Swift as a satirist, and his
almost unequalled mastery of a clear, vigorous, and idiomatic style. " The
Battle of the Books," from which our extract is taken, was one of Swift's earlier
performances. It had reference to the great contest which was then going on
between the advocates of Ancient Learning and Modern Learning. The bee
represents the ancients, the spider the moderns. Such contests are as harm-
less and as absurd as the more recent disputes amongst our French neigh-
bours, about the comparative merits of the Classic and the Romantic schools.
Real criticism can find enough to admire in whatever form genius works.
The Apologue of the Spider and the Bee was not unjustly applied, some
years ago, to a coterie of self-applauding writers, " furnished with a native
stock," who, despising accuracy and careful investigation, turned up their
noses at those who were labouring to make knowledge the common posses-
sion of all.
Jonathan Swift was born in 1667, and died in 1745. An excellent edition
of his works, in nineteen volumes, was edited by Sir Walter Scott. There is
a cheap edition, in two large octavo volumes, published in 1841.]
Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a cer-
tain spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction
of infinite numbers of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the
gates of his palace, like human bones before the cave of some
giant The avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes
and palisadoes, all after the modern way of fortification. After
you had passed several courts you came to the centre, wherein
you might behold the constable himself, in his own lodgings,
which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to sally
out upon all occasions of prey or defence. In this mansion
he had for some time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger
to his person by swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms
from below, when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither
a wandering bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass
had discovered itself, and in he went ; where, expatiating a while,
SWIFT.] THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. Ill
he at last happened to alight upon one of the outward walls of the
spider's citadel, which yielding to the unequal weight, sunk down
to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavoured to force his pass-
age, and thrice the centre shook. The spider within, feeling the
terrible convulsion, supposed at first that nature was approaching
to her final dissolution, or else that Beelzebub, with all his legions,
was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his subjects*
whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length
valiantly resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. Meanwhile
the bee had acquitted himself of his toils, and posted securely at
some distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, and disen-
gaging them from the rugged remnants of the cobweb. By this
time the spider was adventured out, when, beholding the chasms,
the ruins and dilapidations of his fortress, he was very near at his
wits' end ; he stormed and swore like a madman, and swelled till
he was ready to burst. At length, casting his eye upon the bee,
and wisely gathering causes from events, (for they knew each other
by sight,) " A plague split you," said he, " for a giddy puppy, is
it you, with a vengeance, that have made this litter here ? could
you not look before you ? do you think I have nothing else to do
but to mend and repair after you ?" '* Good words, friend," said
the bee, (having now pruned himself, and being disposed to be
droll:) " I '11 give you my hand and word to come near your ken-
nel no more ; I was never in such a confounded pickle since I
was born." "Sirrah," replied the spider, "if it were not for
breaking an old custom in our family, never to stir abroad against
an enemy, I should come and teach you better manners." " I
pray have patience," said the bee, " or you '11 spend your sub-
stance, and for aught I see, you may stand in need of it all to-
ward the repair of your house." "Rogue, rogue," replied the
spider, " yet methinks you should have more respect to a person
whom all the world allows to be so much your betters." " By
my troth," said the bee, " the comparison will amount to a very
good jest ; and you will do me a favour to let me know the reasons
that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful a dispute."
* Beelzebub, in the Hebrew, signifies Lord of Flies.
H2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SwiFT.
At this the spider, having swelled himself into the size and
posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true spirit of
controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and angry ;
to urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers
or objections of his opposite ; and fully predetermined in his mind
against all conviction.
" Not to disparage myself," said he, " by the comparison with
such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or
home, without stock or inheritance? born to no possession of
your own but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your livelihood
is a universal plunder upon nature ; a freebooter over fields and
gardens ; and, for the sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily
as a violet. Whereas I am a domestic animal, furnished with a
native stock within, myself. This large castle (to show my im-
provements in the mathematics) is all built with my own hands,
and the materials extracted altogether out of my own person."
"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least
that I am come honestly by my wings and my voice ; for then, it
seems, I am obliged to Heaven alone for my flights and my music;
and Providence would never have bestowed on me two such gifts,
without designing them for the noblest ends. I visit indeed all
the flowers and blossoms of the field and garden ; but whatever
I collect thence enriches myself, without the least injury to their
beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your skill in
architecture and other mathematics, I have little to say : in that
building of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labour
and method enough ; but, by woful experience for us both, it is
too plain the materials are naught ; and I hope you will hence-
forth take warning, and consider duration and matter, as well as
method and art. You boast indeed of being obliged to no other
creature, but of drawing and spinning out all from yourself; that
is to say, if we may judge of the liquor in the vessel by what
issues out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and poison
in your breast; and, though I would by no means lessen or
disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are some-
what obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign assistance.
DAVID HUME.] OF THE JEALOUSY OF TRADE. 113
Your inherent portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by
sweepings exhaled from below; and one insect furnishes you with
a share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the
question comes all to this ; whether is the nobler being of the
two, that which, by a lazy contemplation of four inches round, by
an overweening pride, feeding and engendering on itself, turns all
into excrement and venom, producing nothing at all but flybane
and a cobweb ; or that which, by a universal range, with long
search, much study, true judgment, and distinction of things,
brings home honey and wax."
19.— (Jf % fjeatej of (Crate.
DAVID HUME.
[DAVID HUME was born in 1711 ; — died in 1776. His first publication was
a "Treatise of Human Nature," which appeared in 1738. According to his
own account, it "fell dead-born from the press." In 1742 he published a
volume of "Essays," which was better received. Hume's philosophical
works were the subject of much controversy in his day. They display
great acuteness, but leave no convictions. As a thinker on questions which
we now class under the head of political economy, he was before his age, and
far in advance of its prejudices. In reading these productions, we must not
forget that they were written a century ago. The following is one of the
essays, in which he asserts principles that have still to seek that universal
acceptance to which they are entitled. Every one is familiar with Hume's
" History of England " — a work which, in spite of manifold defects, has a
charm which few historians had been able to command, until one arose in our
own day — Maoaulay — who has made History as attractive as Romance.]
Nothing is more usual among states which have made some
advances in commerce, than to look on the progress of their
neighbours with a suspicious eye, to consider all trading states as
their rivals, and to suppose that it is impossible for any of them
to flourish, but at their expense. In opposition to this narrow
and malignant opinion, I will venture to assert, that the increase
of riches and commerce in any one nation, instead of hurting,
commonly promotes the riches and commerce of all its neigh-
bours ; and that a state can scarcely carry its trade and industry
VOL. I. 33
114 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVID HUME.
very far where all the surrounding states are buried in ignorance,
sloth, and barbarism.
It is obvious, that the domestic industry of a people cannot be
hurt by the greatest prosperity of their neighbours ; and as this
branch of commerce is undoubtedly the most important in any
extensive kingdom, we are so far removed from all reason of
jealousy. But I go further, and observe, that when an open
communication is preserved among nations, it is impossible but
the domestic industry of every one must receive an increase from
the improvements of the others. Compare the situation of Great
Britain at present with what it was two centuries ago. All the
arts, both of agriculture and manufactures, were then extremely
rude and imperfect. Every improvement which we have since
made has arisen from our imitation of foreigners ; and we ought
so far to esteem it happy, that they had previously made advances
in arts and ingenuity. But this intercourse is still upheld to our
great advantage ; notwithstanding the advanced state of our
manufactures, we daily adopt, in every art, the inventions and
improvements of our neighbours. The commodity is first im-
ported from abroad, to our great discontent, while we imagine
that it drains us of our money ; afterwards, the art itself is gradu-
ally imported, to our visible advantage ; yet we continue still to
repine, that our neighbours should possess any art, industry, and
invention ; forgetting that, had they not first instructed us, we
should have been at present barbarians ; and did they not still
continue their instructions, the arts must fall into a state ot
languor, and lose that emulation and novelty which contribute so
much to their advancement.
The increase of domestic industry lays the foundation of foreign
commerce. Where a great number of commodities are raised
and perfected for the home-market, there will always be found
some which can be exported with advantage. But if our neigh-
bours have no art or cultivation, they cannot take them ; because
they will have nothing to give in exchange. In this respect states
are in the same condition as individuals. A single man can
scarcely be industrious where all his fellow-citizens are idle. The
DAVID HUME.] THE JEALOUSY OF TRADE. 115
riches of the several members of a community contribute to in-
crease my riches, whatever profession I may follow. They con-
sume the produce of my industry, and afford me the produce of
theirs in return.
Nor need any state entertain apprehensions that their neigh-
bours will improve to such a degree in every art and manufacture
as to have no demand from them. Nature, by giving a diversity
of geniuses, climates, and soils to different nations, has secured
their mutual intercourse and commerce, as long as they all remain
industrious and civilised. Nay, the more the arts increase in any
state, the more will be its demands from its industrious neighbours.
The inhabitants, having become opulent and skilful, desire to
have every commodity in the utmost perfection ; and as they have
plenty of commodities to give in exchange, they make large im-
portations from every foreign country. The industry of the
nations from whom they import receives encouragement; their
own is also increased by the sale of the commodities which they
give in exchange.
But what if a nation has any staple commodity, such as the
woollen manufacture is in England ? Must not the interfering of
our neighbours in that manufacture be a loss to us ? I answer,
that when any commodity is denominated the staple of a king-
dom, it is supposed that this kingdom has some peculiar and natu-
ral advantages for raising the commodity; and if, notwithstand-
ing these advantages, they lose such a manufacture, they ought to
blame their own idleness or bad government, not the industry of
their neighbours. It ought also to be considered, that by the
increase of industry among the neighbouring nations, the con-
sumption of every particular species of commodity is also increased ;
and though foreign manufactures interfere with them in the mar-
ket, the demand for their product may still continue, or even in-
crease; and should it diminish, ought the consequence to be
esteemed so fatal ? If the spirit of industry be preserved, it may
easily be diverted from one branch to another; and the manufac-
tures of wool, for instance, be employed in linen, silk, iron, or any
other commodities for which there appears to be a demand. We need
1 1 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVID HUME.
not apprehend that all the objects of industry will be exhausted,
or that our manufacturers, while they remain on an equal footing
with those of our neighbours, will be in danger of wanting employ-
ment. The emulation among rival nations serves rather to keep
industry alive in all of them ; and any people is happier who pos-
sess a variety of manufactures than if they enjoyed one single
great manufacture, in which they are all employed. Their situa-
tion is less precarious, and they will feel less sensibly those revo-
lutions and uncertainties to which every particular branch of com-
merce will always be exposed.
The only commercial state that ought to dread the improve-
ments and industry of their neighbours, is such a one as the
Dutch, who, enjoying no extent of land, nor possessing any num-
ber of native commodities, flourish only by their being the brokers
and factors and carriers of others. Such a people may naturally
apprehend, that as soon as the neighbouring states come to know
and pursue their interest, they will take into their own hands the
management of their affairs, and deprive their brokers of that pro-
fit which they formerly reaped from it. But though this conse-
quence may naturally be dreaded, it is very long before it takes
place ; and by art and industry it may be warded off for many
generations, if not wholly eluded. The advantage of superior
stocks and correspondence is so great, that it is not easily over-
come; and as all the transactions increase by the increase of in-
dustry in the neighbouring states, even a people whose commerce
stands on this precarious basis, may at first reap a considerable
profit from the flourishing condition of their neighbours. The
Dutch, having mortgaged all their revenues, make not such a
figure in political transactions as formerly; but their commerce
is surely equal to what it was in the middle of the last century,
when they were reckoned among the great powers of Europe.
Were our narrow and malignant politics to meet with success,
we should reduce all our neighbouring nations to the same state
of sloth and ignorance that prevails in Morocco and the coast of
Barbary. But what would be the consequence? They could
send us no commodities : they could take none from us : our
C. LAMB.] A COMPLAINT OF THE DEC A Y OF BEGGARS. \ 1 7
domestic commerce itself would languish for want of emulation,
example, and instruction ; and we ourselves should soon fall into
the same abject condition to which we had reduced them. I
shall therefore venture to acknowledge that, not only as a man,
but as a British subject, I pray for the flourishing commerce of
Germany, Spain, Italy, and even France itself. I am at least
certain that Great Britain, and all those nations, would flourish
more did their sovereigns and ministers adopt such enlarged and
benevolent sentiments towards each other.
20.— g, Complaint of i\t |Urag of gjeggars in
C. LAMB.
[CHARLES LAMB — what shall we say of the most original, most quaint, most
simple, most touching, of all modern essayists ? No critical line and level can.
measure the sinuosities of his rich and overflowing runlet of thought ; no plum-
met can gauge the depth of his quiet but most genial humour. Few are his
writings ; — but there are, in their way, not many higher things in any language.
They are finished works of art. How did he form his style ? It is the revela-
tion of his own nature. It lets us into the innermost depths of the man as
completely as Montaigne shows us himself in all his nakedness ; but there are
no painful exposures of gross desires and unlawful imaginings. He has as keen
a sense of the hiding-places of vice and meanness as Swift ; but he has no truc-
ulent abuse or withering sarcasm for what he dislikes. He has a large tolera-
tion of all human infirmity, and a cordial love of all human excellence. He
deposits no offerings on the altars of conventional opinions ; he mouths no
commonplaces about goodness and greatness ; he blindly worships neither
purple nor rags. He delights in queer books and queer men and women. He
sees in what is called a character some rich fruit under a rough rind ; and he
^ets at the juice through the husk in a way which is, to say the least, real philo-
sophy. If any man thoroughly believed in the humanising principle that " there
is a soul of goodness in things evil," it was Charles Lamb. He was born in
London in 1775 ; educated at Christ's Hospital ; laboured as a clerk in London
till 1825 ; and died in the neighbourhood of London in 1834. There he drew
the materials for his Essays. In one of his letters he says, " I often shed tears
in the motley Strand, for feeling of joy at so much life." His prose works
have been published in three volumes : his poems in one volume. A most in-
teresting sketch of the life of Charles Lamb was published by the late Mr
Justice Talfourd in 1837. This was followed in 1848, after the death of
Lamb's sister, by " Memorials of Charles Lamb," consisting of letters collected
by the same genial friend.]
Il8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [C. LAMB.
The all-sweeping besom of societarian reformation — your only
modern Alcides' club to rid the time of its abuses — is uplift with
many-handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering tatters of the
bugbear mendicity from the metropolis. Scrips, wallets, bags —
staves, dogs, and crutches — the whole mendicant fraternity, with
all their baggage, are fast posting out of the purlieus of this
eleventh persecution. From the crowded crossing, from the cor-
ners of streets and turnings of alleys, the parting genius of beggary
is " with sighing sent."
I do not approve of this wholesale going to work, this imper-
tinent crusado or bellum ad exterminationem proclaimed against a
species. Much good might be sucked from these beggars.
They were the oldest and the honourablest form of pauperism.
Their appeals were to our common nature; less revolting to an
ingenuous mind than to be a suppliant to the particular humours
or caprice of any fellow-creature, or set of fellow-creatures, pan>
chial or societarian. Theirs were the only rates uninvidious in the
levy, ungrudged in the assessment.
There was a dignity springing from the very depth of their
desolation ; as to be naked is to be so much nearer to the being
a man, than to go in livery.
The greatest spirits have felt this in their reverses ; and when
Dionysius from king turned schoolmaster, do we feel anything
towards him but contempt ? Could Vandyke have made a picture
of him, swaying a ferula for a sceptre, which would have affected
our minds with the same heroic pity, the same compassionate
admiration, with which we regard his Belisarius begging for an
obolum ? Would the moral have been more graceful, more
pathetic 1
The blind beggar in the legend — the father of pretty Bessy —
whose story doggerel rhymes and alehouse signs cannot so degrade
or attenuate, but that some sparks of a lustrous spirit will shine
through the disguisements — this noble Earl of Cornwall (as indeed
he was) and memorable sport of fortune, fleeing from the unjust
sentence of his liege lord, stript of all, and seated on the flowering
green of Bethnal, with his more fresh and springing daughter by
C. LAMB.] A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. 119
his side, illumining his rags and his beggary — would the child and
parent have cut a better figure, doing the honours of a counter, or
expiating their fallen condition upon the three-foot eminence of
some sempstering shop-board ?
In tale or history your beggar is ever the first antipode to your
king. The poets and romaricical writers, (as dear Margaret New-
castle would call them,) whe.n they would most sharply and feel-
ingly paint a reverse of fortune, never stop till they have brought
down their hero in good earnest to rags and the wallet The
depth of the descent illustrates the height he falls from. There
is no medium which can be presented to the imagination without
offence. There is no breaking the fall. Lear, thrown from his
palace, must divest him of his garments, till he answer "mere
nature," and Cresseid, fallen from a prince's love, must extend
her pale arms, pale with other whiteness than of beauty, suppli-
cating lazar alms with bell and clap-dish.
The Lucian wits knew this very well; and with a converse
policy, when they would express scorn of greatness without the
pity, they show us an Alexander in the shades cobbling shoes, or
a Semiramis getting up foul linen.
How would it sound in song, that a great monarch had declined
his affections upon the daughter of a baker ! Yet do we feel the
imagination at all violated when we read the " true ballad " where
King Cophetua woos the beggar maid 1
Pauperism, pauper, poor man, are expressions of pity, but pity
alloyed with contempt. No one properly contemns a beggar.
Poverty is a comparative thing, and each degree of it is mocked
by its " neighbour grice." Its poor rents and comings-in are soon
summed up and told. Its pretences to property are almost ludi-
crous. Its pitiful attempts to save excite a smile. Every scornful
companion can weigh his trifle-bigger purse against it. Poor man
reproaches poor man in the streets with impolitic mention of his
condition, his own being a shade better, while the rich pass by
and jeer at both. No rascally comparative insults a beggar, or
thinks of weighing purses with him. He is not in the scale of
comparison. He is not under the measure of property. He con-
I2O HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [C. LAMB.
fessedly hath none, any more than a dog or a sheep. No one
twitteth him with ostentation above his means. No one accuses
him of pride, or upbraideth him with mock humility. None jostle
with him for the wall, or pick quarrels for precedency. No wealthy
neighbour seeketh to eject him from his tenement. No man sues
him. No man goes to law with him. If I were not the inde-
pendent gentleman that I am, rather than I would be a retainer
to the great, a led captain, or a poor relation, I would choose; out
of the delicacy and true greatness of my mind, to be a beggar.
Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the beggar's robes
and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress,
the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public. He
is never out of the fashion, or limpeth awkwardly behind it. He
is not required to put on court mourning. He weareth all colours,
fearing none. His costume hath undergone less change than the
Quakers'. He is the only man in the universe who is not obliged
to study appearances. The ups and downs of the world concern
him no longer. He alone continueth in one stay. The price of
stock or land affecteth him not. The fluctuation of agricultural
or commercial prosperity toucheth him not, or at worst, but
change his customers. He is not expected to become bail or
surety for any one. No man troubleth him with questioning his
religion or politics. He is the only free man in the universe.
The mendicants of this great city were so many of her rights,
her lions. I can no more spare them than I could the cries of
London. No corner of a street is complete without them. They
are as indispensable as the ballad-singer; and in their picturesque
attire as ornamental as the signs of old London. They were the
standing morals, emblems, mementos, dial mottos, the spital ser-
mons, the books for children, the salutary checks and pauses to
the high and rushing tide of greasy citizenry ;
" Look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there."
Above all, those old blind Tobits that used to line the wall of
Lincoln's-Inn Garden, before modern fastidiousness had expelled
C. LAMB.] A COMPLAINT OF THE DEC A Y OF BEGGARS. 1 2 I
them, casting up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if
possible) of light, with their faithful dog guide at their feet —
whither are they fled? or into what corners, blind as themselves,
have they been driven out of the wholesome air and sun-warmth 1
Immured between four walls, in what withering poorhouse do
they endure the penalty of double darkness, where the chink ot
the dropped halfpenny no more consoles their forlorn bereave-
ment, far from the sound of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread
of the passenger ? Where hang their useless staves ? and who will
farm their dogs ! Have the overseers of St L caused them
to be shot 1 or were they tied up in sacks, and dropped into the
Thames, at the suggestion of B , the mild rector of ?
Well fare the soul of unfastidious Vincent Bourne, most classi
cal, and at the same time most English of the Latinists ! — who
has treated of this human and quadrupedal alliance, this dog and
man friendship, in the sweetest of his poems, the Epitaphium in
Canem, or Dogs Epitaph. Reader, peruse it; and say if custom-
ary sights, which could call up such gentle poetry as this, were of
a nature to do more harm or good to the moral sense of the pas-
sengers through the daily thoroughfares of a vast and busy metro-
polis : —
Pauperis hie In requiesco Lyciscus, herilis,
Dum vixi, tutela vigil columenque senectae,
Dux caeco fidus : nee, me ducente, solebat,
Praetenso hinc atque hinc baculo, per iniqua locorum
Incertam explorare viam ; sed fila secutus,
Quae dubios regerent passus, vestigia tuta
Fixit inoffenso gressu; gelidumque sedile
In nudo nactus saxo, qua praetereuntium
Unda frequens confluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras
Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam.
Ploravit nee frustra; obolum dedit alter et alter,
Queis corda et mentem indiderat natura benignam.
Ad latus interea jacui sopitus herile,
Vel mediis vigil in somnis; ad herilia jussa
Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustula amice
122 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [C. LAMB.
Porrexit sociasque dapes, seu longa diei
Taedia perpessus reditum sub nocte parabat.
Hi mores, haec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant,
Dum neque languebam morbis, nee inerte senecta;
Quae tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite caecum
Orbavit dominum : prisci sed gratia facti
Ne tota intereat, longos deleta per annos,
Exiguum hunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit,
Etsi inopis, non ingratae, munuscula dextrae;
Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canemque
Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignum.
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
Had he occasion for that staff with which
He now goes picking out his path in fear
O'er the highways and crossings; but would plant,
Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd
His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd :
To whom with loud and passionate laments
From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd,
Nor wail'd to all in vain; some here and there,
The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
Prick' d up at his least motion; to receive
At his kind hands my customary crumbs,
And common portion in his feast of scraps ;
Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent
With our long day and tedious beggary.
These were my manners, this my way of life,
Till age and slow disease me overtook,
And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
C. LAMB.] A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS. 123
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest —
In long and lasting union to attest —
The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a
well-known figure, or part of the figure of a man, who used to
glide his comely upper half over the pavements of London,
wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a machine of
wood — a spectacle to natives, to foreigners, and to children. He
was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like complexion, and his
head was bare to the storm and sunshine. He was a natural
curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple.
The infant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his
own level. The common cripple would despise his own pusil-
lanimity, viewing the hale stoutness, and hearty heart, of this
half-limbed giant. Few but must have noticed him; for the
accident, which brought him low, took place during the riots of
1780, and he has been a groundling so long. He seemed earth-
born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which
he neighboured. He was a grand fragment; as good as an Elgin
marble. The nature, which should have recruited his reft legs
and thighs, was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, and
he was half a Hercules. I heard a tremendous voice thundering
and growling, as before an earthquake, and casting down my eyes,
it was this mandrake reviling a steed that had started at his
portentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just stature
to have rent the offending quadruped in shivers. He was as the
man-part of a Centaur, from which the horse-half had been cloven
in some dire Lapithsean controversy. He moved on, as if he
could have made shift with yet half of the body portion which
was left him. The os sublime was not wanting; and he threw out
yet a jolly countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two-years
124 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [C. LAMB/
had he driven this out-of-door trade, and now that his hair is
grizzled in the service, but his good spirits no way impaired,
because he is not content to exchange his free air and exercise for
the restraints of a poorhouse, he is expiating his contumacy in
one of those houses (ironically christened) of correction.
Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a nuisance which
called for legal interference to remove 1 or not rather a salutary
and a touching object to the passers-by in a great city1? Among
her shows, her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity
(and what else but an accumulation of sights — endless sights — is
a great city; or for what else is it desirable?) was there not room
for one Lusus (not Natures, indeed, but) Accidentium ? What if in
forty-and-two years' going about, the man had scraped together
enough to give a portion to his child (as the rumour ran) of a few
hundreds — whom had he injured ? Whom had he imposed upon 1
The contributors had enjoyed their sight for their pennies. What
if after being exposed all day to the heats, the rains, and the frosts
of heaven — shuffling his ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and
painful motion — he was enabled to retire at night to enjoy himself
at a club of his fellow-cripples over a dish of hot meat and vege-
tables, as the charge was gravely brought against him by a clergy-
man deposing before a House of Commons Committee — was this,
or was his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact; deserved
a statue rather than a whipping-post, and is inconsistent at least
with the exaggeration of nocturnal orgies which he has been
slandered with — a reason that he should be deprived of his
chosen, harmless, nay, edifying, way of life, and be committed in
hoary age for a sturdy vagabond ?
There was a Yorick once, whom it would not have shamed to
have sat down at the cripples' feast, and to have thrown in his
benediction, ay, and his mite too, for a companionable symbol.
"Age, thou hast lost thy breed."
Half of these stories about the prodigious fortunes made by
begging are (I verily believe) misers' calumnies. One was much
talked of in the public papers some time since, and the usual
charitable inferences deduced. A clerk in the Bank was surprised
C. LAMB.] A COMPLAINT OF THE DEC A Y OF BEGGARS. 125
with the announcement of a five hundred pound legacy left him
by a person whose name he was a stranger to. It seems that in
his daily morning walks from Peckham, (or some village there-
abouts,) where he lived, to his office, it had been his practice for
the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of
some blind Bartimeus, that sate begging alms by the wayside in
the Borough. The good old beggar recognised his daily bene-
factor by the voice only; and, when he died, left all the amassings
of his alms (that had been half a century perhaps in the accumu-
lating) to his old Bank friend. Was this a story to purse up
people's hearts and pennies against giving an alms to the blind ?
— or not rather a beautiful moral of well-directed charity on the
one part, and noble gratitude upon the other?
I sometimes wish I had been that Bank clerk.
I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind of creature,
blinking, and looking up with his no eyes in the sun.
Is it possible I could have steeled my purse against him ]
Perhaps I had no small change.
Reader, do not be frightened at the hard words, imposition,
imposture. Give, and ask no questions. " Cast thy bread upon
the waters." Some have unawares (like this Bank clerk) enter-
tained angels.
Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress. Act
a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and
visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether
the " seven small children," in whose name he implores thy
assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels
of unwelcome truth to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe
him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and, under a
personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou
hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their
counterfeit looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You
pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, which,
concerning these poor people, thou canst not certainly tell
whether they are feigned or not.
126 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BUFFON.
21.
BUFFON.
[THE Comte de Buffon, the most eloquent if not the most accurate of
naturalists, was born in 1 707, and died in 1 788. More than two-thirds of his
fourscore years were passed in unremitting literary labour. He was rich,
luxurious, fond of display— yet he went to bed every night at nine o'clock, and
began his appointed task every morning at six. In his later years, when asked
how he could have done so much, he replied, " Have I not spent fifty years
at my desk ?" The passage which we translate from his chapter on " Man "
will give a notion of the fertility of his imagination under the guidance ot
science.]
The first man describes his first movements, his first sensations,
and his first ideas, after the creation.
I recollect that moment full of joy and perplexity, when, for
the first time, I was aware of my singular existence ; I did not
know what I was, where I was, or where I came from. I opened
my eyes : how my sensations increased ! the light, the vault of
heaven, the verdure of the earth, the crystal of the waters, every-
thing interested me, animated me, and gave me an inexpressible
sentiment of pleasure. I thought at first that all these objects
were in me, and made a part of myself. I was confirming myself
in this idea, when I turned my eyes towards the sun; its brilliancy
distressed me; I involuntarily closed my eyelids, and I felt a
slight sensation of grief. In this moment of darkness I thought
I had lost my entire being.
Afflicted and astonished, I was thinking of this great change,
when suddenly I heard sounds : the singing of the birds, the
murmuring of the air, formed a concert the sweet influence of
which touched my very soul ; I listened for a long time, and I
soon felt convinced that this harmony was myself. Intent upon
and entirely occupied with this new part of my existence, I had
already forgotten light, that other portion of my being, the first
with which I had become acquainted, when I reopened my eyes.
What happiness to possess once more so many brilliant objects!
My pleasure surpassed what I had felt the first time, and for
a while suspended the charming effect of sound.
BUFFON.] THE FIRST MAN. 127
I fixed my eyes on a thousand different objects ; I soon dis-
covered that I might lose and recover these objects, and that I
had, at my will, the power of destroying and reproducing this
beautiful part of myself; and, although it seemed to me immense
in its grandeur, from the quality of the rays of light, and from the
variety of the colours, I thought I had discovered that it was all
a portion of my being.
I was beginning to see without emotion, and to hear without
agitation, when a slight breeze, whose freshness I felt, brought to
me perfumes that gave me an inward pleasure, and caused a
feeling of love for myself.
Agitated by all these sensations, and oppressed by the plea-
sures of so beautiful and grand an existence, I suddenly rose, and
I felt myself taken along by an unknown power. I only made
one step ; the novelty of my situation made me motionless, my
surprise was extreme ; I thought my existence was flying from me :
the movement I had made disturbed the objects around me, I
imagined everything was disordered.
I put my hand to my head j I touched my forehead and eyes ;
I felt all over my body ; my hand then appeared to me the prin-
cipal organ of my existence. What I felt was so distinct and so
complete, the enjoyment of it appeared so perfect, compared
with the pleasure that light and sound had caused me, that 1 gave
myself up entirely to this substantial part of my being, and I felt
that my ideas acquired profundity and reality.
Every part of my body that I touched seemed to give back to
my hand feeling for feeling, and each touch produced a double
idea in my mind. I was not long in discovering that this faculty
of feeling was spread over every part of my body; I soon found
out the limits of my existence, which had at first seemed to me
immense in extent. I had cast my eyes over my body; I thought
it of enormous dimensions, so large, that all the objects that
struck my eye appeared to me, in comparison, mere luminous
points. I examined myself for a long time, I looked at myself
with pleasure, I followed my hand with my eyes, and I observed
all its movements. My mind was filled with the strangest ideas.
128 HALF HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [BUFFON.
I thought the movement of my hand was only a kind of fugitive
existence, a succession of similar things. I put my hand near my
eyes; it seemed to me larger than my whole body, and it hid an
infinite number of objects from my view.
I began to suspect that there was an illusion in the sensations
that my eyes made me experience. I had distinctly seen that my
hand was only a small part of my body, and I could not under-
stand how it could increase so as to appear of immoderate size.
I then resolved to trust only to touch, which had not yet deceived
me, and to be on my guard with respect to every other way of
feeling and being.
This precaution was useful to me. I put myself again in
motion, and I walked with my head high and raised towards hea-
ven. I struck myself slightly against a palm-tree; filled with fear,
I placed my hand on this foreign substance, for such I thought it,
because it did not give me back feeling for feeling. I turned
away with a sort of horror, and then I knew for the first time that
there was something distinct from myself. More agitated by this
new discovery than I had been by all the others, I had great
difficulty in reassuring myself ; and, after having meditated upon
this event, I came to the conclusion that I ought to judge of
external objects as I had judged of the parts of my own body,
that it was only by touching them that I could assure myself of
their existence. I then tried to touch all I saw. I wanted to
touch the sun; I stretched out my arms to embrace the horizon,
and I only clasped the emptiness of air.
At every experiment that I made, I became more and more
surprised ; for all the objects around appeared to be equally near
me : and it was only after an infinite number of trials that I learnt
to use my eyes to guide my hand ; and, as it gave me totally dif-
ferent ideas from the impressions that I received through the
sense of sight, my opinions were only more imperfect, and my
whole being was to me still a confused existence.
Profoundly occupied with myself, with what I was, and what I
might be, the contrarieties I had just experienced humiliated me.
The more I reflected, the more doubts arose in my mind. Tired out
BUFFON.] THE FIRST MAN. I2Q
by so much uncertainty, fatigued by the workings of my mind, my
knees bent, and I found myself in a position of repose. This state
of tranquillity gave new vigour to my senses. I was seated under
the shadow of a fine tree ; fruits of a red colour hung down in
clusters within reach of my hand. I touched them lightly, they
immediately fell from the branch, like the fig when it has arrived
at maturity. I seized one of these fruits, I thought I had made a
conquest, and I exulted in the power I felt of being able to hold
in my hand another entire being. Its weight, though very slight,
seemed to me an animated resistance, which I felt pleasure
in vanquishing. I had put this fruit near my eyes ; I was con-
sidering its form and colour. Its delicious smell made me bring
it nearer ; it was close to my lips ; with long respirations I drew
in the perfume, and I enjoyed in long draughts the pleasures of
smell. I was filled with this perfumed air. My mouth opened
to exhale it ; it opened again to inhale it. I felt that I possessed
an internal sense of smell, purer and more delicate than the first.
At last, I tasted.
What a flavour ! What a novel sensation ! Until then I had
only experienced pleasure; taste gave me the feeling of voluptu-
ousness. The nearness of the enjoyment to myself produced the
idea of possession. I thought the substance of the fruit had
become mine, and that I had the power of transforming beings.
Flattered by this idea of power, and urged by the pleasure I
had felt, I gathered a second and a third fruit, and I did not tire
of using my hand to satisfy my taste ; but an agreeable languor
by degrees taking possession of my senses, weighed on my mem-
bers, and suspended the activity of my mind. I judged of my
inactivity by the faintness of my thoughts ; my weakened senses
blunted all the objects around, which appeared feeble and indis-
tinct. At this moment, my now useless eyes closed, and my
head, no longer kept up by the power of my muscles, fell back to
seek support on the turf. Everything became effaced, everything
disappeared. The course of my thoughts was interrupted, I lost
the sensation of existence. This sleep was profound, but I do not
know whether it was 'of long duration, not yet having an idea of
VOL. I. j
A
130 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HOOKER.
time, and therefore unable to measure it. My waking was only a
second birth, and I merely felt that I had ceased to exist. The
annihilation I had just experienced caused a sensation of fear,
and made me feel that I could not exist for ever.
Another thing disquieted me. I did not know that I had not
lost during my sleep some part of my being. I tried my senses.
I endeavoured to know myself again.
At this moment, the sun, at the end of the course, ceased to
give light. I scarcely perceived that I lost the sense of sight; I
existed too much to fear the cessation of my being; and it was in
vain that the obscurity recalled to me the idea of my first sleep.
22.—
HOOKER.
[THE life of Richard Hooker has been written by Isaac Walton. He was
born near Exeter, in 1553, of poor parents; was placed by an uncle at school;
and through the patronage of Bishop Jewel was sent to Corpus Christi College,
Oxford. Having taken orders, he was presented to the living of Drayton
Beauchamp, Bucks : and was preferred to be Master of the Temple in 1585.
Here he became involved in a controversy on Church discipline, which deter-
mined him to write his "Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity." To acquire leisure
for the completion of this task, he retired from the career of ambition which
was opened to him, and resided, first at Boscombe in Wiltshire, and then at
Bishopbourne in Kent, where he died in 1600. His great work in defence of
the constitution and discipline of the Church of England is a masterpiece of
learning, of acute reasoning, and of splendid eloquence. Amidst its rigid dis-
quisitions there are passages that are truly sublime. It is difficult in an extract
to furnish an adequate notion of the comprehensiveness of his argument. We
give a passage from his first book, " Concerning Laws, and their several kinds
in general." The concluding sentence of Walton's Life of Hooker is a just
tribute to his personal character : ' ' Bless, O Lord, Lord bless his brethren,
the clergy of this nation, with ardent desires, and effectual endeavours, to
attain, if not to his great learning, yet to his remarkable meekness, his godly
simplicity, and his Christian moderation: for these are praiseworthy; these
bring peace at the last."]
I am not ignorant that by Law eternal, the learned for the most
part do understand the order, not which God hath eternally pur-
posed Himself in all His works to observe, but rather that which
HOOKER. ] NA TURE'S LAW. 1 3 1
with Himself he hath set down as an expedient to be kept by all
His creatures, according to the several conditions wherewith He
hath endued them. They who thus are accustomed to speak
apply the name of Law unto that only rule of working which
superior authority imposeth; whereas we, somewhat more en-
larging the sense thereof, term any kind of rule or canon, whereby
actions are framed, a law. Now that Law, which, as it is laid up
in the bosom of God, they call eternal, receiveth, according unto
the different kind of things which are subject unto it, different and
sundry kinds of names. That part of it which ordereth natural
agents, we call usually Nature's Law; that which angels do
-clearly behold, and without any swerving observe, is a Law
celestial and heavenly; the Law of Reason, that which bindeth
creatures reasonable in this world, and with which by reason they
most plainly perceive themselves bound; that which bindeth them,
and is not known but by special revelation from God, Divine Law :
Human Law, that which out of the law, either of reason or of
God, men probably gathering to be expedient, they make it a law.
All things, therefore, which are as they ought to be, are conformed
unto this second Law Eternal; and even those things, which to
this Eternal Law are not conformable, are notwithstanding in
some sort ordered by the first Eternal Law. For what good or
evil is there under the sun ; what action correspondent or repug-
nant unto the law which God hath imposed upon His creatures,
but in, or upon it, God doth work according to the law, which
Himself hath eternally purposed to keep; that is to say, the first
Eternal Law? So that a twofold law eternal being thus made, it
is not hard to conceive how they both take place in all things.
Wherefore to come to the Law of Nature, albeit thereby we
sometimes mean that manner of working which God hath set for
each created thing to keep; yet forasmuch as those things are
termed most properly natural agents, which keep the law of their
kind unwittingly, as the heavens and elements of the world, which
can do no otherwise than they do : and forasmuch as we give unto
intellectual natures the name of voluntary agents, that so we may
distinguish them from the other, expedient it will be that we
132 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HOOKER.
sever the Law of Nature observed by the one, from that which the
other is tied unto. Touching the former, their strict keeping of
one tenure, statute, and law, is spoken of by all, but hath in it
more than men have as yet attained to know, or perhaps ever
shall attain, seeing the travail of wading herein is given of God to
the sons of men ; that perceiving how much the least thing in the
world hath in it, more than the wisest are able to reach unto, they
may by this means learn humility. Moses, in describing the work
of creation, attributeth speech unto God : God said, Let there be
light: let there be a firmament: let the waters under the heavens be
gathered together into one place: let the earth bring forth: let there be
lights in the firmament of heaven. Was this only the intent of
Moses, to signify the infinite greatness of God's power, by the
easiness of his accomplishing such effects, without travail, pain, or
labour] Surely, it seemeth that Moses had herein, besides this, a
further purpose, namely, first to teach that God did not work as
a necessary, but a voluntary agent, intending beforehand, and
decreeing with himself, that which did outwardly proceed from
him. Secondly, to show that God did then institute a law
naturally to be observed by creatures, and therefore, according to
the manner of laws, the institution thereof is described as being
established by solemn injunction. His commanding those things
to be which are, and to be in such sort as they are, to keep that
tenure and course, which they do, importeth the establishment of
Nature's Law. The world's first creation, and the preservation
since of things created, what is it, but only so far forth a mani-
festation by execution what the eternal law of God is concerning
things natural? And as it cometh to pass in a kingdom rightly
ordered, that after a law is once published, it presently takes effect
far and wide, all states framing themselves thereunto ; even so let
us think it fareth in the natural course of the world ; since the
time that God did first proclaim the edicts of His law upon it,
heaven and earth have hearkened unto His voice, and their labour
hath been to do His will : He made a law for the rain; He gave His
decree unto the sea, that the waters should not pass His command-
ment. Now, if Nature should intermit her course, and leave
HOOKER.] NA TURE'S LAW. 133
altogether, though it were but for a while, the observation of her
own laws ; if those principal and mother-elements of the world,
whereof all things in this lower world are made, should lose the
qualities which now they have : if the frame of that heavenly
arch erected over our heads should loosen and dissolve itself; if
celestial spheres should forget their wonted motions, and by
irregular volubility turn themselves any way as it might happen ;
if the prince of the lights of heaven, which now as a giant doth
run his unwearied course, should, as it were, through a languish-
ing faintness, begin to stand and to rest himself; if the moon
should wander from her beaten way, the times and seasons of the
year blend themselves by disordered and confused mixtures, the
winds breathe out their last gasp, the clouds yield no rain, the earth
be defeated of heavenly influence, the fruits of the earth pine
away, as children at the breasts of their mother, no longer able to
yield them relief; what would become of man himself, whom
these things do now all serve ? See we not plainly that obedience
of creatures unto the Law of Nature is the stay of the whole
world1? Notwithstanding, with nature it cometh sometimes to
pass as with art. Let Phidias have rude and obstinate stuff to
carve, though his art do that it should, his work will lack that
beauty which otherwise in fitter matter it might have had. He
that striketh an instrument with skill, may cause notwithstanding
a very unpleasant sound, if the string whereon he striketh chance
to be incapable of harmony. In the matter whereof things
natural consist, that of Theophrastus takes place, UoXv TO ofy
VKO.XOUOV ovog &XOJEMVOI' rb sv. Much of it is oftentimes such as
will by no means yield to receive that impression which were best and
most perfect. Which defect in the matter of things natural, they
who gave themselves to the contemplation of nature amongst the
heathen, observed often ; but the true original cause thereof,
divine malediction, laid for the sin of man upon these creatures,
which God had made for the use of man, this being an article of
that saving truth which God hath revealed unto His Church, was
above the reach of their merely natural capacity and understand-
ing. But howsoever, these swervings are now and then incident
134 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HOOKER.
into the course of nature ; nevertheless, so constantly the laws of
nature are by natural agents observed, that no man denieth but
those things which nature worketh are wrought either always, or
for the most part, after one and the same manner. If here it be
demanded, what this is which keepeth Nature in obedience to her
own law, we must have recourse to that higher law whereof we
have already spoken ; and because all other laws do thereon
depend, from thence we must borrow so much as shall need for
brief resolution in this point. Although we are not of opinion,
therefore, as some are, that Nature in working hath before her
certain exemplary draughts or patterns, which subsisting in the
bosom of the Highest, and being thence discovered, she fixeth
her eye upon them, as travellers by sea upon the pole star of the
world, and that according thereunto she guideth her hand to work
by imitation : although we rather embrace the oracle of Hippo-
crates, That each thing, both in small and in great, fulfilleth the
task which destiny hath set down. And concerning the manner of
executing and fulfilling the same, What they do, they know not, yet
is it in show and appearance as though they did know what they do;
and the truth is, they do not discern the things which they look on :
nevertheless, forasmuch as the works of Nature are no less
exact, than if she did both behold and study how to express some
absolute shape or mirror always present before her ; yea, such her
dexterity and skill appeareth, that no intellectual creature in the
world were able by capacity to do that which Nature doth without
capacity and knowledge ; it cannot be but Nature hath some
director of infinite knowledge to guide her in all her ways. Who
is the guide of Nature, but only the God of Nature 1 In Him w&
live, move, and are. Those things which Nature is said to do, are
by divine art performed, using Nature as an instrument ; nor is
there any such art or knowledge divine in Nature herself working,
but in the guide of Nature's work. Whereas therefore things
natural, which are not in the number of voluntary agents (for ot
such only we now speak, and of no other) do so necessarily
observe their certain laws, that as long as they keep those forms
which give them their being, they cannot possibly be apt or inclin-
WORDSWORTH.]
THE GOOD LORD CLIFFORD.
'35
able to do otherwise than they do ; seeing the kinds of their
operations are both constantly and exactly framed, according to
the several ends for which they serve, they themselves in the
meanwhile, though doing that which is fit, yet knowing neither
what they do, nor why; it followeth that all which they do in this
sort proceedeth originally from some such agent as knoweth,
appointeth, holdeth up, and even actually frameth the same.
23— ®|r* (tofr y 0rir Clifficrrir,
WORDSWORTH.
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION OP
LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF
HIS ANCESTORS.
LORD CLIFFORD AS A SHEPHERD.
[THE greatest name in the literature of our own age is William Wordsworth,
Twenty years ago we should have been sneered at for this opinion ; no one
now ventures to doubt its truth, who has outlived the poetical creed of the first
Edinburgh Reviewers. Hazlitt, a critic in many respects before his age, writes
thus of Wordsworth: — " He is the most original poet now living, and the one
whose writings could the least be spared, for they have no substitute elsewhere.
The vulgar do not read them; the learned, who see all things through books,
do not understand them; the great despise, the fashionable may ridicule
them ; but the author has created himself an interest in the heart of the retired
and lonely student which can never die." The tastes of the retired and lonely
136 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWORTH.
student have triumphed over the pedantry of the learned and the coldness of
the great and fashionable; and by dint of better education, and a familiarity
with good models, the class whom Hazlitt calls "the vulgar" do read the
poems of the secluded thinker, who made the earnest cultivation of the highest
poetry the one business of his life.
Mr Wordsworth was born in 1770. He was educated at Hawkshead
Grammar School; and graduated at St John's College, Cambridge, in 1791.
In 1793 he published a small poem, "The Evening Walk," and in 1798 was
associated with Coleridge, in the "Lyrical Ballads." In 1803 he married his
cousin, Mary Hutchinson ; and for the remainder of his life dwelt in the lake
country, occasionally publishing and slowly winning his power over the mind
of his age. He died on the 23d of April 1850. In his last years he might
have been apostrophised in his own beautiful lines, in companionship with
Homer and Milton : —
*' Brothers in soul ! though distant times
Produced you, nursed in various climes,
Ye, when the orb of life had waned,
A plenitude of love retain'd;
Hence, while in you each sad regret
By corresponding hope was met,
Ye linger'd among human kind,
Sweet voices for the passing wind ;
Departing sunbeams, loath to stop,
Though smiling on the last hill-top."]
High in the breathless hall the minstrel Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her
sate, Who is the flower of Lancaster!
And Emont's murmur mingled with Behold her how she smiles to-day
the song. On this great throng, this bright array !
The words of ancient time I thus trans- Fair greeting doth she send to all
late, From every corner of the hall ;
A festal strain that hath been silent But chiefly from above the board
long :— Where sits in state our rightful lord,
"From town to town, from tower A Clifford to his own restored!
to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower. "They came with banner, spear,
Her thirty years of winter past, and shield ;
The red rose is revived at last; And it was proved in Bosworth field.
She lifts her head for endless spring, Not long the Avenger was withstood —
For everlasting blossoming Earth helped him with the cry of blood :
Both roses flourish, Red and White. St George was with us, and the might
In love and sisterly delight Of blessed angels crown'd the right.
The two that were at strife are blended, Loud voice the land has utter'd forth,
And all old troubles now are ended. We loudest in the faithful north :
WORDSWORTH.]
THE GOOD LORD CLIFFORD.
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming ;
Our strong abodes and castles see
The glory of their loyalty.
" How glad is Skip ton at this hour,
Though she is but a lonely tower !
To vacancy and silence left ;
Of all her guardian sons bereft —
Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or
groom ;
We have them at the feast of Brougham.
How glad Pendragon, though the sleep
Of years be on her ! — She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream ;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard ;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely tower : —
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair house by Emont's side,
This day, distinguish'd without peer,
To see her Master, and to cheer
Hun and his Lady Mother dear !
' ' Oh ! it was a time forlorn,
When the fatherless was borri —
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die !
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Hunt the mother and the child.
Who will take them from the light?
— Yonder is a man in sight —
Yonder is a house — but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven, she looks:
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, mother mild,
Maid and mother undefiled,
Save a mother and her child !
" Now, who is he that bounds with
joy
On Car rock's side, a shepherd boy ?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that
pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be he who hither came
In secret, like a smother'd flame ?
O'er whom such thankful tears were
shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread !
God loves the child, and God hath
will'd
That those dear words should be ful-
fill'd,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her babe did say,
' My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best ! '
*' Alas ! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The boy must part from Mossdale's
groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the flowers that summer
brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turn'd to heaviness and fear.
—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good man, old in days !
Thou free of covert and of rest
For this young bird, that is distrest,
Among the branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play
When falcons were abroad for prey.
" A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear !
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long.
A weak and cowardly untruth !
Our Clifford was a happy youth,
138
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [WORDSWORTH.
And thankful through a weary time
That brought him up to manhood's
prime.
• — Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a flock from hill to hill :
His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the shepherd-grooms no mate
Hath he, a child of strength and state !
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
That learn'd of him submissive ways,
And comforted his private days.
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear ;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stoop'd down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on
him,
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality ;
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which angels haunt
On the mountains visitant ;
He hath kenn'd them taking wing ;
And the caves where faeries sing
He hath enter'd, — and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be ;
And if men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
— Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom :
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book ;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls ;
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance-
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the shield —
Tell thy name, thou trembling field.
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory !
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our shepherd, in his power,
Mail'd and horsed, with lance and,
sword,
To his ancestors restored,
Like a reappearing star,
Like a glory from afar,
First shall head the flock of war !"
Alas ! the fervent harper did not
know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was
framed,
Who long compell'd in humble walks
to go,
Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and
tamed.
Love had he found in huts where poor
men lie ;
His daily teachers had been woods and
rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely
hills.
In him the savage virtue of the race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts,
were dead :
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty
place
The wisdom which adversity had
bred.
Glad were the vales, and every cottage
hearth ;
The shepherd lord was honour'd more
and more :
And ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the
name he bore.
WORDSA-ORTH.] THE GOOD LORD CLIFFORD. I^g
Mr Southey, describing the mountain scenery of the lake region, says, "The
story of the shepherd Lord Clifford, which was known only to a few anti-
quaries till it was told so beautifully in verse by Wordsworth, gives a romantic
interest to Blencathara." Henry Lord Clifford was the son of John Lord
Clifford, who was slain at Towton, which battle placed the House of York upon
the throne. His family could expect no mercy from the conqueror ; for he
was the man who slew the younger brother of Edward IV. in the battle of
Wakefield — a deed of cruelty in a cruel age. The hero of this poem fled from
his paternal home, and lived for twenty-four years as a shepherd. He was re-
stored to his rank and estates by Henry VII. The following narrative is from
an old MS. quoted by Mr Southey : —
" So in the condition of a shepherd's boy at Lonsborrow, where his mother
then lived for the most part, did this Lord Clifford spend his youth, till he was
about fourteen years of age, about which time his mother's father, Henry
-Bromflett, Lord Vesey, deceased. But a little after his death it came to be
rumoured at the court that his daughter's two sons were alive ; about which
their mother was examined, but her answer was, that she had given directions
to send them both beyond seas, to be bred there, and she did not know
whether they were dead or alive.
"And as this Henry Lord Clifford did grow to more years, he was still the
more capable of his danger, if he had been discovered. And therefore pre-
sently after his grandfather, the Lord Vesey, was dead, the said rumour of his
being alive, being more and more\ whispered at the court, made his said loving
mother, by the means of her second husband, Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, to send
him away with the said shepherds and their wives into Cumberland, to be kept
as a shepherd there, sometimes at Threlkeld, and amongst his father-in-law's
kindred, and sometimes upon the borders of Scotland, where they took
lands purposely for these shepherds that had the custody of him; where many
times his father-in-law came purposely to visit him, and sometimes his mother,
though very secretly. By which mean kind of breeding this inconvenience
befell him, that he could neither write nor read ; for they durst not bring him
up in any kind of learning, lest by it his birth should be discovered. Yet
after he came to his lands and honours, he learnt to write his name only.
"Notwithstanding which disadvantage, after he came to be possessed again
and restored to the enjoyment of his father's estate, he came to be a very wise
man, and a very good manager of his estate and fortunes.
" This Henry Lord Clifford, after he came to be possessed of his said estate,
was a great builder and repairer of all his castles in the north, which had gone
to decay when he came to enjoy them ; for they had been in strangers' hands
about twenty-four or twenty-five years. Skipton Castle and the lands about
it had been given to William Stanley by King Edward IV. , which William
Stanley's head was cut off about the tenth year of King Henry VII. ; and
Westmoreland was given by Edward IV. to his brother Richard, Duke of
Gloucester, who was afterwards king of England, and was slain in battle the 22d
of August 1485.
140 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BASIL HALL.
"This Henry Lord Clifford did, after he came to his estate, exceedingly
delight in astronomy, and the contemplation of the course of the stars, which
it was likely he was seasoned in during the course of his shepherd's life. He
built a great part of Barden Tower, (which is now much decayed, ) and there
he lived much ; which it is thought he did the rather because in that place he
had furnished himself with instruments for that study.
" He was a plain man, and lived for the most part a country life, and came
seldom either to the Court or London, but when he was called thither to sit in
them as a peer of the realm, in which parliament, it is reported, he behaved
himself wisely, and nobly, and like a good Englishman."
24 — Stealing foiffr
BASIL HALL.
[THERE is only one book of biography in our language that, in our view,
can compare with Boswell's Life of Johnson, and that book is Lockhart's Life
of Scott. The life of the great novelist is more artistically put together than
the life of the great moralist and critic; but they each, in their several modes,
plac& you in the most intimate companionship with the heroes of their respective
stories. There is more of varied incident in the narrative of Scott's career
than in that of Johnson. When" Scott falls from his splendid position as
regards wealth into comparative poverty, with a load of debt upon his
shoulders that might have sunk him to the earth, we trace the gradual
approach and consummation of his ruin with an interest that no writer of
fiction could ever hope to excite and sustain. And when, again, we see the
brave man bearing his load gallantly through years of labour, and gradually
casting it off, bit by bit, and winning universal love and admiration by his
wondrous exertions of talent and industry, that he may work out his emanci-
pation by the strength of his own hand alone — the world can hardly show
another such example of the sublime spectacle of will o'ermastering fate. We
offer these obvious remarks upon the career of Scott, as an introduction to a
most interesting narrative extracted from Captain Basil Hall's Diary, and
published in Mr Lockhart's Life of Scott. Captain Hall was a most accom-
plished naval officer — one of that class now happily so common, who unite a
taste for science and literature with their professional knowledge. He has
described some of his travels and adventures with remarkable spirit in various
popular works. He was bom in 1788, and died in 1844.]
A hundred and fifty years hence, when his works have become
old classical authorities, it may interest some fervent lover of his
writings to know what this great genius was about on Saturday
the loth of June 1826 — five months after the total ruin of his
BASIL HALL.] STRUGGLING WITH ADVERSITY. 141
pecuniary fortunes, and twenty-six days after the death of his
wife.
In the days of his good luck he used to live at No. 39 North
Castle Street, in a house befitting a rich baronet; but on reaching
the door, I found the plate on it covered with rust, (so soon is
glory obscured,) the windows shuttered up, dusty, and comfort-
less ; and from the side of one projected a board, with this
inscription, — "To Sell;" the stairs were unwashed, and not a
foot-mark told of the ancient hospitality which reigned within.
In all nations with which I am acquainted the fashionable world
move westward, in imitation,, perhaps, of the great tide of civilisa-
tion ; and, vice versd, those persons who decline in fortune, which
is mostly equivalent to declining in fashion, shape their course east-
ward. Accordingly, by an involuntary impulse, I turned my head
that way, and inquiring at the clubs in Prince's Street, learned
that he now resided in St David Street, No. 6.
I was rather glad to recognise my old friend the Abbotsford
butler, who answered the door — the saying about heroes and
valets-de-chambre comes to one's recollection on such occasions ;
and nothing, we may be sure, is more likely to be satisfactory to
a man whose fortune is reduced than the stanch adherence of a
mere servant, whose wages must be altered for the worse. At the
top of the stair we saw a small tray, with a single plate and
glasses for one solitary person's dinner. Some few months ago
Sir Walter was surrounded by his family, and wherever he moved,
his head-quarters were the focus of fashion. Travellers from all
nations crowded round, and, like the recorded honours of Lord
Chatham, " thickened over him." Lady and Miss Scott were his
constant companions ; the Lockharts were his neighbours both in
town and in Roxburghshire; his eldest son was his frequent
guest; and, in short, what with his own family and the clouds of
tourists, who, like so many hordes of Cossacks, pressed upon
him, there was not, perhaps, out of a palace, any man so attended,
I had almost said overpowered, by company. His wife is now
dead — his son-in-law and favourite daughter gone to London, and
his grandchild, I fear, just staggering, poor little fellow, on the
142 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BASIL HALL.
edge of the grave, which, perhaps, is the securest refuge for him
• — his eldest son is married, and at a distance, and report speaks
of no probability of the title descending; in short, all are dis-
persed, and the tourists, those "curiosos impertinentes," drive
past Abbotsford gate, and curse their folly in having delayed for
a year too late their long-projected jaunt to the north. Mean-
while, not to mince the matter, the great man had, somehow or
other, managed to involve himself with printers, publishers,
bankers, gasmakers, wool-staplers, and all the fraternity of specu-
lators, accommodation-bill manufacturers, land-jobbers, and so
on, till, at a season of distrust in money matters, the hour of
reckoning came, like a thief in the night ; and as our friend, like
the unthrifty virgins, had no oil in his lamp, all his affairs went to
wreck and ruin, and landed him, after the gale was over, in the
predicament of Robinson Crusoe, with little more than a shirt to
his back. But, like that able navigator, he is not cast away upon
a barren rock. The tide has ebbed, indeed, and left him on the
beach, but the hull of his fortunes is above water still, and it will
go hard indeed with him if he does not shape a raft that shall
bring to shore much of the cargo that an ordinary mind would
leave in despair, to be swept away by the next change of the
moon. The distinction between man and the rest of the living
creation, certainly, is in nothing more remarkable than in the
power which he possesses over them, of turning to varied account
the means with which the world is stocked. But it has always
struck me that there is a far greater distinction between man and
man than between many men and most other animals ; and it is
from a familiarity with the practical operation of this marvellous
difference that I venture to predict that our Crusoe will cultivate
his own island, and build himself a bark in which, in process of
time, he will sail back to his friends and fortune in greater triumph
than if he had never been driven amongst the breakers.
Sir Walter Scott, then, was sitting at a writing-desk covered with
papers and on the top was a pile of bound volumes of the Moni-
teur> — one, which he was leaning over as my brother and I entered,
was open on a chair, and two others were lying on the floor. As
BASIL HALL.] STRUGGLING WITH ADVERSITY. 143
he rose to receive us, he closed the volume which he had been
extracting from, and came forward to shake hands. He was, of
course, in deep mourning, with weepers and the other trappings of
woe ; but his countenance, though certainly a little woe-begonish,
was not cast into any very deep furrows. His tone and manner
were as friendly as heretofore ; and when he saw that we had no
intention of making any attempt at sympathy or moanification,
but spoke to him as of old, he gradually contracted the length of
his countenance, and allowed the corners of his mouth to curl
almost imperceptibly upwards, and a renewed lustre came into
his eye, if not exactly indicative of cheerfulness, at all events of
well-regulated, patient, Christian resignation. My meaning will
be misunderstood if it be imagined from this picture that I sus-
pected any hypocrisy, or an affectation of grief, in the first in-
stance. I have no doubt, indeed, that he feels, and most acutely,
the bereavements which have come upon him; but we may very
fairly suppose, that among the many visitors he must have, there
may be some who cannot understand that it is proper, decent, or
even possible, to hide those finer emotions deep in the heart. He
immediately began conversing in his usual style — the chief topic
being Captain Denham (whom I had recently seen in London)
and his book of African Travels, which Sir Walter had evidently
read with much attention After sitting a quarter of
an hour we came away, well pleased to see our friend quite un-
broken in spirit— and though bowed down a little by the blast,
and here and there a branch the less, as sturdy in the trunk as
ever, and very possibly all the better for the discipline — better, I
mean, for the public, inasmuch as he has now a vast additional
stimulus for exertion, and one which all the world must admit to
be thoroughly noble and generous.
144 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVY.
25. — (
DAVY.
[SIR HUMPHREY DAVY, the great chemist, may fairly take his place amongst
"the best authors." The qualities by which he raised himself to his profes-
sional eminence were the very qualities that make a great writer — a vivid im-
agination subjected to the discipline of accurate reasoning, and both working
with unwearied industry. Davy took the largest views of science; but he
worked them out by the most diligent examination of the minutest facts. We
trace the same genius in his lighter writings. The extract which we are about
to give is from his little book on fly-fishing, entitled " Salmonia," a book full
of the most charming pictures of external nature, seen through the brilliant
atmosphere of a poetical philosophy. Davy was born in Penzance in 1778.
His father was a carver in wood ; and, while an apprentice to a surgeon and
apothecary, the future president of the Royal Society was laying up materials
for his career in diligent study. In 1801 he came to London, and became a
lecturer at the Royal Institution; from this time his life was one continued
series of brilliant discoveries and beautiful exposition. The Miner's Safety
Lamp is one of the most signal examples of the practical benefit of the highest
theoretical science. He died in the maturity of his fame at the comparatively
early age of fifty-one.]
Poict. I hope we shall have another good day to-morrow? for
the clouds are red in the west.
Phys. I have no doubt of it, for the red has a tint of purple.
Hal. Do you know why this tint portends fine weather ?
Phys. The air when dry, I believe, refracts more red, or heat-
making rays ; and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, they are
again reflected in the horizon. I have observed generally a cop-
pery or yellow sunset to foretell rain; but, as an indication of
wet weather approaching, nothing is more certain than a halo
round the moon, which is produced by the precipitated water;
and the larger the circle, the nearer the clouds, and, consequently,
the more ready to fall.
Hal. I have often observed that the old proverb is correct —
A rainbow in the morning is the shepherd's warning,
A rainbow at night is the shepherd's delight.
Can you explain this omen 1
Phys. A rainbow can only occur when the clouds containing or
DAW.] OMENS. 145
depositing the rain are opposite to the sun, — and in the evening
the rainbow is in the east, and in the morning in the west ; and as
our heavy rains in this climate are usually brought by the wes-
terly wind, a rainbow in the west indicates that the bad weather
is on the road, by the wind, to us ; whereas the rainbow in the
east proves that the rain in these clouds is passing from us.
Poict. I have often observed that when the swallows fly high,
fine weather is to be expected or continued ; but when they fly
low, and close to the ground, rain is almost surely approaching.
Can you account for this ?
Hal. Swallows follow the flies and gnats, and flies and gnats
usually delight in warm strata of air; and as warm air is lighter,
and usually moister than cold air, when the warm strata of air are
higher, there is less chance of moisture being thrown down from
them by the mixture with cold air; but when the warm and moist
air is close to the surface, it is almost certain that, as the cold air
flows down into it, a deposition of water will take place.
Poict. I have often seen sea-gulls assemble on the land, and
have almost always observed that very stormy and rainy weather
was approaching. I conclude that these animals, sensible of a
current of air approaching from the ocean, retire to the land to
shelter themselves from the storm.
Orn. No such thing. The storm is their element; and the
little petrel enjoys the heaviest gale, because, living on the smaller
sea insects, he is sure to find his food in the spray of a heavy
wave, and you may see him flitting above the edge of the highest
surge. I believe that the reason of this migration of sea-gulls, and
other sea birds, to the land, is their security of finding food; and
they may be observed, at this time, feeding greedily on the earth-
worms and larvae, driven out of the ground by severe floods; and
the fish, on which they prey in fine weather in the sea, leave the
surface and go deeper in storms. The search after food, as we
agreed on a former occasion, is the principal cause why animals
change their places. The different tribes of the wading birds
always migrate when rain is about to take place; and I remember
once, in Italy, having been long waiting, in the end of March, for
VOL. i. K
146 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVY.
the arrival of the double snipe in the Campagna of Rome, a great
flight appeared on the $d of April, and the day after heavy rain
set in, which greatly interfered with my sport. The vulture, upon
the same principle, follows armies; and I have no doubt that the
augury of the ancients was a good deal founded upon the obser-
vation of the instincts of birds. There are many superstitions of
the vulgar owing to the same source. For anglers, in spring, it is
always unlucky to see single magpies, but two may be always
regarded as a favourable omen; and the reason is, that in cold
and stormy weather one magpie alone leaves the nest in search of
food, the other remaining sitting upon the eggs or the young ones;
but when two go out together, it is only when the weather is
warm and mild, and favourable for fishing,
Poict. The singular connexions of causes and effects, to which
you have just referred, make superstition less to be wondered at,
particularly amongst the vulgar; and when two facts, naturally
unconnected, have been accidentally coincident, it is not singular
that this coincidence should have been observed and registered,
and that omens of the most absurd kind should be trusted in. In
the west of England, half a century ago, a particular hollow noise
on the sea-coast was referred to a spirit or goblin called Bucca,
and was supposed to foretell a shipwreck : the philosopher knows
that sound travels much faster than currents in the air, and the
sound always foretold the approach of a very heavy storm, which
seldom takes place on that wild and rocky coast, without a ship-
wreck on some part of its extensive shores, surrounded by the
Atlantic.
Phys. All the instances of omens you have mentioned are
founded on reason; but how can you explain such absurdities as
Friday being an unlucky day, the terror of spilling salt, or meeting
an old woman? I knew a man, of very high dignity, who was
exceedingly moved by these omens, and who never went out
shooting without a bittern's claw fastened to his button-hole by a
riband, which he thought insured him good luck.
Poict. These, as well as the omens of death-watches, dreams,
&c., are for the most part founded upon some accidental coin-
DAVY.] OMENS. 147
cidence ; but spilling of salt, on an uncommon occasion, may, as
I have known it, arise from a disposition to apoplexy, shown by
an incipient numbness in the hand, and may be a fatal symptom ;
and persons dispirited by bad omens sometimes prepare the way
for evil fortune; for confidence in success is a great means of
insuring it The dream of Brutus, before the field of Pharsalia,
probably produced a species of irresolution and despondency
which was the principal cause of his losing the battle : and I have
heard that the illustrious sportsman to whom you referred just
now, was always observed to shoot ill, because he shot carelessly,
after one of his dispiriting omens.
- Hal. I have in life met with a few things which I found it
impossible to explain, either by chance coincidences or by natural
connexions: and I have known minds of a very superior class
affected by them — persons in the habit of reasoning deeply and
profoundly.
Phys. In my opinion, profound minds are the most likely to
think lightly of the resources of human reason ; and it is the pert
superficial thinker who is generally strongest in every kind of
unbelief. The deep philosopher sees chains of causes and effects
so wonderfully and strangely linked together, that he is usually the
last person to decide upon the impossibility of any two series of
events being independent of each other; and in science, so many
natural miracles, as it were, have been brought to light — such as
the fall of stones from meteors in the atmosphere, the disarming a
thunder-cloud by a metallic point, the production of fire from ice
by a metal white as silver, and the referring certain laws of motion
of the sea to the moon — that the physical inquirer is seldom
disposed to assert, confidently, on any abstruse subjects belonging
to the order of natural things, and still less so on those relating
to the more mysterious relations of moral events and intellectual
natures.
148 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHANNING.
26.— C^ $ mmi S««-
CHANNING.
[!T is our intention, from time to time, to give specimens of those writers of
the United States who have added something to the glories of " the tongue which
Shakspeare spake. " Amongst those, one of the most celebrated is William Ellery
Channing, D.D. He was born in 1780 or 1781; was educated at Harvard
College ; became a member of the Unitarian communion ; and spent his life as
pastor of a congregation at Boston. He died in 1 842. Dr Channing's reputation
is very high in this country ; chiefly from the republication of his Essays on Milton
and on Napoleon Bonaparte. He is a great master of words, which he pours
forth with fluency, elegance, and even splendour ; but there appears sometimes
a want of solidity. This is, no doubt, a consequence of the diffuseness of his
style; which has the flow of the orator, rather than the condensation of the
writer. But without doubt Channing may be advantageously read. Passing
over his controversial works, there is great benevolence in all his tendencies.
He sees the conditions of human progress very clearly. He aims to banish
vice and ignorance from the world by the general elevation of the great masses
Df the people. His efforts for the abolition of negro slavery were unremitting.]
In looking at our age, I am struck, immediately, with one com-
manding characteristic, and that is, the tendency in all its move-
ments to expansion, to diffusion, to universality. To this, I ask
your attention. This tendency is directly opposed to the spirit of
exclusiveness, restriction, narrowness, monopoly, which has pre-
vailed in past ages. Human action is now freer, more unconfmed.
All goods, advantages, helps, are more open to all. The privileged
petted individual is becoming less, and the human race are be-
coming more. The multitude is rising from the dust. Once we
heard of the few, now of the many ; once of the prerogatives of a
part, now of the rights of all. We are looking, as never before,
through the disguises, envelopments of ranks and classes, to the
common nature which is below them ; and are beginning to learn
that every being who partakes of it, has noble powers to cultivate,
solemn duties to perform, inalienable rights to assert, a vast destiny
to accomplish. The grand idea of humanity, of the importance
of man as man, is spreading silently, but surely. Not that the
worth of the human being is at all understood as it should be;
but the truth is glimmering through the darkness. A faint con-
CHANNING.] THE PRESENT AGE. 149
sciousness of it has seized on the public mind. Even the most
abject portions of society are visited by some dreams of a better
condition for which they were designed. The grand doctrine,
that every human being should have the means of self-culture, of
progress in knowledge and virtue, of health, comfort, and happi-
ness, of exercising the powers and affections of a man; this is
slowly taking its place, as the highest social truth. That the world
was made for all, and not for a few ; that society is to care for all ;
that no human being shall perish but through his own fault; that
the great end of government is to spread a shield over the rights
of all; these propositions are growing into axioms, and the spirit
of them is coming forth in all the departments of life.
If we look at the various movements of our age, we shall see in
them this tendency to universality and diffusion. Look, first, at
science and literature. Where is science now? Locked up in a
few colleges, or royal societies, or inaccessible volumes 1 Are its
experiments mysteries for a few privileged eyes ? Are its portals
guarded by a dark phraseology, which, to the multitude, is a
foreign tongue 1 No; science has now left her retreats, her shades,
her selected company of votaries, and with familiar tone begun
the work of instructing the race. Through the press, discoveries
and theories, once the monopoly of philosophers, have become
the property of the multitude. Its professors, heard, not long ago,
in the university or some narrow school, now speak in the me-
chanics' institute. The doctrine that the labourer should under-
stand the principles of his art, should be able to explain the laws
and processes which he turns to account; that instead of working
as a machine, he should join intelligence to his toil, is no longer
listened to as a dream. Science, once the greatest of distinctions,
is becoming popular. A lady gives us conversations on chemistry,
revealing to the minds of our youth vast laws of the universe,
which, fifty years ago, had not dawned on the greatest minds.
The school-books of our children contain grand views of the crea-
tion. There are parts of our country (the United States) in which
lyceums spring up in almost every village, for the purpose of
mutual aid in the study of natural science. The characteristic of
150 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHANNING.
our age, then, is not the improvement of science, rapid as this is,
so much as its extension to all men.
The same characteristic will appear, if we inquire into the use
now made of science. Is it simply a matter of speculation? a
topic of discourse ? an employment of the intellect 1 In this case,
the multitude, with all their means of instruction, would find in it
only a hurried gratification. But one of the distinctions of our
time is that science has passed from speculation into life. Indeed,
it is not pursued enough for its intellectual and contemplative
uses. It is sought as a mighty power, by which nature is not
only to be opened to thought, but to be subjected to our needs.
It is conferring on us that dominion over earth, sea, and air, which
was prophesied in the first command given to man by his Maker ;
and this dominion is now employed, not to exalt a few, but to
multiply the comforts and ornaments of life for the multitude of
men. Science has become an inexhaustible mechanician; and by
her forges, and mills, and steam cars, and printers' presses, is
bestowing on millions not only comforts, but luxuries which were
once the distinction of a few.
Another illustration of the tendency of science to expansion
and universality may be found in its aims and objects. Science
has burst all bonds, and is aiming to comprehend the universe,
and thus it multiplies fields of inquiry for all orders of minds.
There is no province of nature which it does not invade. Not
content with exploring the darkest periods of human history, it
goes behind the birth of the human race, and studies the stupen-
dous changes which our globe experienced for hundreds of
centuries, to become prepared for man's abode. Not content
with researches into visible nature, it is putting forth all its
energies to detect the laws of invisible and imponderable matter.
Difficulties only provoke it to new efforts. It would lay open the
secrets of the polar ocean, and of untrodden barbarous lands.
Above all, it investigates the laws of social progress, of arts, and
institutions of government, and political economy, proposing as
its great end the alleviation of all human burdens, the weal of
all the members of the human race. In truth, nothing is more
CHANNING.] THE PRESENT AGE. 151
characteristic of our age than the vast range of inquiry which is
opening more and more to the multitude of men. Thought frees
the old bounds to which men used to confine themselves. It
holds nothing too sacred for investigation. It calls the past to
account, and treats hoary opinions as if they were of yesterday's
growth. No reverence drives it back. No great name terrifies
it The foundations of what seems most settled must be explored.
Undoubtedly this is a perilous tendency. Men forget the limits
of their powers. They question the Infinite, the Unsearchable,
with an audacious self-reliance. They shock pious and revering
minds, and rush into an extravagance of doubt, more unphiloso-
phical and foolish than the weakest credulity. Still, in this
dangerous wildness, we see what I am stating, the tendency to
expansion in the movements of thought.
I have hitherto spoken of science, and what is true of science
is still more true of literature. Books are now placed within
reach of all. Works, once too costly except for the opulent, are
now to be found on the labourer's shelf. Genius sends its light
into cottages. The great names of literature are become house-
hold words among the crowd. Every party, religious or political,
scatters its sheets on all the winds. We may lament, and too
justly, the small comparative benefit as yet accomplished by this
agency ; but this ought not to surprise or discourage us. In our
present stage of improvement, books of little worth, deficient in
taste and judgment, and ministering to men's prejudices and
passions, will almost certainly be circulated too freely. Men are
never very wise and select in the exercise of a new power. Mis-
take, error, is the discipline through which we advance. It is an
undoubted fact, that, silently, books of a higher order are taking
the place of the worthless. Happily, the instability of the human
mind works sometimes for good as well as evil : men grow tired
at length even of amusements. Works of fiction cease to interest
them, and they turn from novels to books, which, having their
origin in deep principles of our nature, retain their hold of the
human mind for ages. At any rate, we see in the present diffusion
of literature the tendency to universality of which I have spoken.
152 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHANNING.
The remarks now made on literature might be extended to the
fine arts. In these we see, too, the tendency to universality. It
is said that the spirit of the great artists has died out ; but the
taste for their works is spreading. By the improvements of
engraving, and the invention of casts, the genius of the great
masters is going abroad. Their conceptions are no longer pent
up in galleries open to but few, but meet us in our homes, and are
the household pleasures of millions. Works, designed for the
halls and eyes of emperors, popes, and nobles, find their way, in
no poor representations, into humble dwellings, and sometimes
give a consciousness of kindred powers to the child of poverty.
The art of drawing, which lies at the foundation of most of the
fine arts, and is the best education of the eye for nature, is becom-
ing a branch of common education, and in some countries is
taught in schools to which all classes are admitted.
I am reminded, by this remark, of the most striking feature of
our times, and showing its tendency to universality, and that is,
the unparalleled and constantly-accelerated diffusion of education.
This greatest of arts, as yet little understood, is making sure pro-
gress, because its principles are more and more sought in the
common nature of man ; and the great truth is spreading that
every man has a right to its aid. Accordingly, education is
becoming the work of nations. Even in the despotic govern-
ments of Europe, schools are open for every child without
distinction; and not only the elements of reading and writing,
but music and drawing are taught, and a foundation is laid for
future progress in history, geography, and physical science. The
greatest minds are at work on popular education. The revenues
of states are applied most liberally, not to the universities for the
few, but to the common schools. Undoubtedly, much remains to
be done ; especially a new rank in society is to be given to the
teacher; but even in this respect a revolution has commenced,
and we are beginning to look on the guides of the young as the
chief benefactors of mankind.
Thus we see, in the intellectual movements of our times, the
ARNOLD.] CLASSICAL EDUCATION. 153
tendency to expansion, to universality ; and this must continue.
It is not an accident, or an inexplicable result, or a violence on
nature ; it is founded in eternal truth. Every mind was made for
growth, for knowledge ; and its nature is sinned against when it is
doomed to ignorance. The divine gift of intelligence was bestowed
for higher uses than bodily labour, than to make hewers of wood,
drawers of water, ploughmen, or servants. Every being, so
gifted, is intended to acquaint himself with God and His works,
and to perform wisely and disinterestedly the duties of life. Ac-
cordingly, when we see the multitude of men beginning to thirst
for knowledge, for intellectual action, for something more than
animal life, we see the great design of nature about to be accom-
plished ; and society, having received this impulse, will never rest
till it shall have taken such a form as will place within every man's
reach the means of intellectual culture. This is the revolution
to which we are tending ; and without this all outward political
changes would be but children's play, leaving the great work of
society yet to be done.
27. -Classical <$trtu:aii0tt.
ARNOLD.
[THE opinions of so eminent a man as the late Dr Arnold on Classical
Education must always command the attention of every candid inquirer.
Those who advocate the general education of the people are somewhat too apt
to say that Latin and Greek are useless things. There cannot, in our view, be
a greater instance of narrow-mindedness. It is the abuse of the study of Latin
and Greek that alone is to be condemned. Arnold was the model of a sensible
teacher; and the following extract from an account of his own school at
Rugby, which he published in the Quarterly Journal of Edztcation, in 1 834,
puts this question of Classical Education on the surest footing. Thomas
Arnold was born at Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, in 1795; he died of spasm of
the heart in 1842; having devoted the greater part of his useful life to the
instruction of the young. As an author, he is best known by his "Roman
History." But the great beauty of his character was never generally under-
stood till the publication of his " Life and Correspondence." The following
account of his mode of living at Laleham, where he received private pupils
from 1819 to 1828, is from the pen of one of those pupils; and it eminently
shows the great cause of Arnold's unrivalled success as the head master of a
public school, in which capacity he closed his too short career : —
154 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARNOLD.
"The most remarkable thing which struck me at once on joining the
Laleham circle was, the wonderful healthiness of tone and feeling which pre-
vailed in it. Everything about me I immediately found to be most real ; it
was a place where a new-comer at once felt that a great and earnest work was
going forward. Dr Arnold's great power as a private tutor resided in this,
that he gave such an intense earnestness to life. Every pupil was made to feel
that there was a work for him to do — that his happiness as well as his duty lay
in doing that work well. Hence, an indescribable zest was communicated to a
young man's feelings about life ; a strange joy came over him on discovering
that he had the means of being useful, and thus of being happy ; and a deep
respect and ardent attachment sprang up towards him who had taught him
thus to value life and his ownself, and his work and mission in this world. All
this was founded on the breadth and comprehensiveness of Arnold's character,
as well as its striking truth and reality; on the unfeigned regard he had for
work of all kinds, and the sense he had of its value both for the complex
aggregate of society and the growth and perfection of the individual. Thus,
pupils of the most different natures were keenly stimulated : none felt that he
was left out, or that, because he was not endowed with large powers of mind,
there was no sphere open to him in the honourable pursuit of usefulness. This
wonderful power of making all his pupils respect themselves, and in awakening
in them a consciousness of the duties that God has assigned to them personally,
and of the consequent reward each should have of his labours, was one of
Arnold's most characteristic features as a trainer of youth; he possessed it
eminently at Rugby ; but, if I may trust my own vivid recollections, he had it
quite as remarkably at Laleham. His hold over all his pupils I know perfectly
astonished me. It was not so much an enthusiastic admiration for his genius,
or learning, or eloquence, which stirred within them ; it was a sympathetic
thrill, caught from a spirit that was earnestly at work in the world — whose
work was healthy, sustained, and constantly carried forward in the fear of God
— a work which was founded on a deep sense of its duty and its value ; and was
coupled with such a true humility, such an unaffected simplicity, that others
could not help being invigorated by the same feeling, and with the belief that
they too in their measure could go and do likewise.
"In all this there was no excitement, no predilection for one class of work
above another; no enthusiasm for anyone-sided object; but a humble, pro-
found, and most religious consciousness that work is the appointed calling ot
man on earth, the end for which his various faculties were given, the element
in which his nature is ordained to develop itself, and in which his progressive
advance towards heaven is to lie. Hence, each pupil felt assured of Arnold's
sympathy in his own particular growth and character of talent ; in striving to
cultivate his own gifts, in whatever direction they might lead him, he infallibly
found A.rnold not only approving, but positively and sincerely valuing fox
themselves the results he had arrived at; and that approbation and esteenr
gave a dignity and a worth both to himself and his labour."]
ARNOLD.] CLASSICAL EDUCATION. 155
A reader unacquainted with the real nature of a classical
education will be in danger of undervaluing it, when he sees
that so large a portion of time at so important a period of human
life is devoted to the study of a few ancient writers whose works
seem to have no direct bearing on the studies and duties of our
own generation. For instance, although some provision is un-
doubtedly made at Rugby for acquiring a knowledge of modern
history, yet the history of Greece and Rome is more studied than
that of France and England; and Homer and Virgil are certainly
much more attended to than Shakspere and Milton. This appears
to many persons a great absurdity; while others who are so far
swayed by authority as to believe the system to be right, are yet
unable to understand how it can be so. A Journal of Education
may not be an unfit place for a few remarks on this subject.
It may be freely confessed that the first origin of classical
education affords in itself no reasons for its being continued now.
When Latin and Greek were almost the only written languages of
civilised men, it is manifest that they must have furnished the
subjects of all liberal education. The question therefore is wholly
changed since the growth of a complete literature in other lan-
guages; since France, and Italy, and Germany, and England,
have each produced their philosophers, their poets, and their
historians, worthy to be placed on the same level with those of
Greece and Rome.
But although there is not the same reason now which existed
three or four centuries ago for the study of Greek and Roman
literature, yet there is another no less substantial. Expel Greek
and Latin from your schools, and you confine the views of the
existing generation to themselves and their immediate predeces-
sors ; you will cut off so many centuries of the world's experience,
and place us in the same state as if the human race had first come
into existence m the year 1500. For it is nothing to say that a
few learned individuals might still study classical literature; the
effect produced on the public mind would be no greater than that
which has resulted from the labours of our Oriental scholars: it
156 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ARNOLD.
would not spread beyond themselves; and men in general, after
a few generations, would know as little of Greece and Rome, as
they do actually of China and Hindostan. But such an ignorance
would be incalculably more to be regretted. With the Asiatic
mind we have no nearer connexion and sympathy than is derived
from our common humanity. But the mind of the Greek and of
the Roman is in all the essential points of its constitution our
own; and not only so, but it is our mind developed to an extra-
ordinary degree of perfection. Wide as is the difference between
us with respect to those physical instruments which minister to
our uses or our pleasures; although the Greeks and Romans had
no steam-engines, no printing-presses, no mariner's compass, no
telescopes, no microscopes, no gunpowder ; yet in our moral and
political views, in those matters which must determine human
character, there is a perfect resemblance in these respects. Aris-
totle, and Plato, and Thucydides, and Cicero, and Tacitus, are
most untruly called ancient writers; they are virtually our own
countrymen and contemporaries, but have the advantage which is
enjoyed by intelligent travellers, that their observation has been
exercised in a field out of the reach of common men ; and that
having thus seen in a manner with our eyes what we cannot see
for ourselves, their conclusions are such as bear upon our own
circumstances, while their information has all the charm of novelty,
and all the value of a mass of new and pertinent facts, illustrative
of the great science of the nature of civilised man.
Now when it is said that men in manhood so often throw their
Greek and Latin aside, and that this very fact shows the uselessness
of their early studies, it is much more true to say that it shows how
completely the literature of Greece and Rome would be forgotten,
if our system of education did not keep up the knowledge of it.
But it by no means shows that system to be useless, unless it
followed that when a man laid aside his Greek and Latin books,
he forgot also all that he had ever gained from them. This, how-
ever, is so far from being the case, that even where the results of
a classical education are least tangible, and least appreciated even
by the individual himself, still the mind often retains much of the
COLERIDGE.] SIR ALEXANDER BALL. 157
effect of its early studies in the general liberality of its tastes and
comparative comprehensiveness of its views and notions.
All this supposes, indeed, that classical instruction should be
sensibly conducted ; it requires that a classical teacher should be
fully acquainted with modern history and modern literature, no
less than with those of Greece and Rome. What is, or perhaps
what used to be, called a mere scholar, cannot possibly communi-
cate to his pupils the main advantages of a classical education.
The knowledge of the past is valuable, because without it our
knowledge of the present and of the future must be scanty; but if
the knowledge of the past be confined wholly to itself — if, instead
of being made to bear upon things around us, it be totally isolated
from them, and so disguised by vagueness and misapprehension
as to appear incapable of illustrating them, then indeed it becomes
little better than laborious trifling, and they who declaim against
it may be fully forgiven.
28.— Sir &Je*anto* galL
COLERIDGE.
[THE following most interesting account of an eminent naval commander is
from Mr Coleridge's Collection of Essays, "The Friend." There are few
better specimens of genuine English prose employed to do honour to a genuine
English character.]
Sir Alexander Ball was a gentleman by birth : a younger brother
of an old and respectable family in Gloucestershire. He went
into the navy at an early age from his choice, and, as he himself
told me, in consequence of the deep impression and vivid images
left on his mind by the perusal of " Robinson Crusoe." It is not
my intention to detail the steps of his promotion, or the services
in which he was engaged as a subaltern. I recollect many par-
ticulars indeed, but not the dates with such distinctness as would
enable me to state them (as it would be necessary to do if I stated
them at all) in the order of time. These dates might perhaps
have been procured from other sources; but incidents that are
158 HALF- HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
neither characteristic nor instructive, even such as would be ex-
pected with reason in a regular life, are no part of my plan ; while
those which are both interesting and illustrative I have been pre-
cluded from mentioning — some from motives which have been
already explained, and others from still higher considerations.
The most important of these may be deduced from a reflection
with which he himself once concluded a long and aifecting narra-
tion; namely, that no body of men can for any length of time be
safely treated otherwise than as rational beings; and that, there-
fore, the education of the lower classes was of the utmost conse-
quence to the permanent security of the empire, even for the
sake of our navy. The dangers apprehended from the education
of the lower classes, arose (he said) entirely from its not being
universal, and from the unusualness in the lowest classes of those
accomplishments which he, like Dr Bell, regarded as one of the
means of education, and not as education itself. If (he observed)
the lower classes in general possessed but one eye or one arm, the
few who were so fortunate as to possess two would naturally be-
come vain and restless, and consider themselves as entitled to a
higher situation. He illustrated this by the faults attributed to
learned women, and that the same objections were formerly made
to educating women at all — namely, that their knowledge made
them vain, affected, and neglectful of their proper duties. Now
that all women of condition are well educated, we hear no more
of these apprehensions, or observe any instances to justify them.
Yet if a lady understood the Greek one tenth-part as well as the
whole circle of her acquaintances understood the French language,
it would not surprise us to find her less pleasing from the con-
sciousness of her superiority in the possession of an unusual ad-
vantage. Sir Alexander Ball quoted the speech of an old admiral,
one of whose two great wishes was to have a ship's crew com-
posed altogether of serious Scotchmen. He spoke with great re-
probation of the vulgar notion, the worse man the better sailor.
Courage, he said, was the natural product of familiarity with dan-
ger, which thoughtlessness would oftentimes turn into fool-hardi-
ness j and that he had always found the most usefully brave sailors
COLERIDGE.] S!R ALEXANDER BALL. 159
the gravest and most rational of his crew. The best sailor he had
ever had first attracted his notice by the anxiety which he ex-
pressed concerning the means of remitting some money which he
had received in the West Indies to his sister in England; and this
man, without any tinge of Methodism, was never heard to swear an
oath, and was remarkable for the firmness with which he devoted
a part of every Sunday to the reading of his Bible. I record this
with satisfaction as a testimony of great weight, and in all respects
unexceptionable ; for Sir Alexander Ball's opinions throughout life
remained unwarped by zealotry, and were those of a mind seeking
after truth in calmness and complete self-possession. He was
.much pleased with an unsuspicious testimony furnished by Dam-
pier. " I have particularly observed," writes this famous old
navigator, " there and in other places, that such as had been well
bred, were generally most careful to improve their time, and would
be very industrious and frugal where there was any probability of
considerable gain ; but, on the contrary, such as had been bred up
in ignorance and hard labour, when they came to have plenty
would extravagantly squander away their time and money in drink-
ing and making a bluster." Indeed, it is a melancholy proof how
strangely power warps the minds of ordinary men, that there can
be a doubt on this subject among persons who have been them-
selves educated. It tempts a suspicion, that, unknown to them-
selves, they find a comfort in the thought that their inferiors are
something less than men; or that they have an uneasy half-con-
sciousness that, if this were not the case, they would themselves
have no claim to be their superiors. For a sober education natur-
ally inspires self-respect. But he who respects himself will respect
others; and he who respects himself and others, must of necessity
be a brave man. The great importance of this subject, and the
increasing interest which good men of all denominations feel in
the bringing about of a national education, must be my excuse for
having entered so minutely into Sir Alexander Ball's opinions on
this head; in which, however, I am the more excusable, being
now on that part of his life which I am obliged to leave almost a
blank.
l6o HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
During his lieutenancy, and after he had perfected himself in
the knowledge and duties of a practical sailor, he was compelled
by the state of his health to remain in England for a considerable
length of time. Of this he industriously availed himself for the
acquirement of substantial knowledge from books ; and during
his whole life afterwards, he considered those as his happiest
hours, which, without any neglect of official or professional duty,
he could devote to reading. He preferred— indeed he almost
confined himself to — history, political economy, voyages and
travels, natural history, and latterly agricultural works ; in short,
to such books as contain specific facts, or practical principles
capable of specific application. His active life, and the particu-
lar objects of immediate utility, some one of which he had always
in his view, precluded a taste for works of pure speculation and
abstract science, though he highly honoured those who were
eminent in these respects, and considered them as the benefactors
of mankind, no less than those who afterwards discovered the
mode of applying their principles, or who realised them in practice.
Works of amusement, as novels, plays, and the like, did not ap-
pear even to amuse him ; and the only poetical composition of
which I have ever heard him speak, was a manuscript poem,
written by one of my friends, which I read to his lady in his pre-
sence. To my surprise he afterwards spoke of this with warm
interest; but it was evident to me, that it was not so much the
poetic merit of the composition that had interested him, as the
truth and psychological insight with which it represented the
practicability of reforming the most hardened minds, and the
various accidents which may awaken the most brutalised person
to a recognition of his nobler being. I will add one remark ot
his on knowledge acquired from books, which appears to me both
just and valuable. The prejudice against such knowledge, (he
said,) and the custom of opposing it to that which is learnt by
practice, originated in those times when books were almost con-
fined to theology and to logical and metaphysical subtleties; but
that at present there is scarcely any practical knowledge which
is not to be found in books : the press is the means by which in-
COLERIDGE.] SSR ALEXANDER BALL. l6l
telligent men now converse with each other, and persons of all
classes and all pursuits convey, each the contribution of his indi-
vidual experience. It was therefore, he said, as absurd to hold
book-knowledge at present in contempt, as it would be for a man
to avail himself only of his own eyes and ears, and to aim at no-
thing which could not be performed exclusively by his own arms.
The use and necessity of personal experience, consisted in the
power of choosing and applying what had been read, and of dis-
criminating by the light of analogy the practicable, and probability
from mere plausibility. Without a judgment matured and steadied
by actual experience, a man would read to little or perhaps to
.bad purpose ; but yet that experience, which in exclusion of all
other knowledge has been derived from one man's life, is in the
present day scarcely worthy of the name — at least for those who
are to act in the higher and wider spheres of duty. An ignorant
general, he said, inspired him with terror : for if he were too proud
to take advice, he would ruin himself by his own blunders ; and if
he were not, by adopting the worst that was offered. A great
genius may indeed form an exception; but we do not lay down
rules in expectation of wonders. A similar remark I remember to
have heard from an officer, who to eminence in professional science
and the gallantry of a tried soldier adds all the accomplishments
of a sound scholar and the powers of a man of genius.
One incident, which happened at this period of Sir Alexander's
life, is so illustrative of his character, and furnishes so strong a
presumption that the thoughtful humanity by which he was dis-
tinguished was not wholly the growth of his latter years, that,
though it may appear to some trifling in itself, I will insert it in
this place, with the occasion on which it was communicated to
me. In a large party at the Grand Master's palace, I had
observed a naval officer of distinguished merit listening to Sir
Alexander Ball, whenever he joined in the conversation, with so
marked a pleasure, that it seemed as if his very voice, independ-
ently of what he said, had been delightful to him : and once as
he fixed his eyes on Sir Alexander Ball, I could not but notice
the mixed expression of awe and affection, which gave a more
VOL. i. L
1 62 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
than common interest to so manly a countenance. During his
stay in the island, this officer honoured me not unfrequently with
his visits; and at the conclusion of my last conversation with
him, in which I had dwelt on the wisdom of the governor's con-
duct in a recent and difficult emergency, he told me that he
considered himself as indebted to the same excellent person for
that which was dearer to him than his life. " Sir Alexander
Ball," said he, "has (I daresay) forgotten the circumstances;
but when he was Lieutenant Ball, he was the officer whom I
accompanied in my first boat expedition, being then a midship-
man, and only in my fourteenth year. As we were rowing up to
the vessel which we were to attack, amid a discharge of musketry,
I was overpowered by fear, my knees trembled under me, and I
seemed on the point of fainting away. Lieutenant Ball, who saw
the condition I was in, placed himself close beside me, and still
keeping his countenance directed toward the enemy, took hold of
my hand, and pressing it in the most friendly manner, said in a
low voice, 'Courage, my dear boy! don't be afraid of yourself !
you will recover in a minute or so — I was just the same when I
first went out in this way.' Sir," added the officer to me, "it was
as if an angel had put a new soul into me. With the feeling that I
was not yet dishonoured, the whole burden of agony was removed ;
and from that moment I was as fearless and forward as the oldest
of the boat's crew; and on our return the lieutenant spoke highly
of me to our captain. I am scarcely less convinced of my own
being, than that I should have been what I trembled to think of,
if, instead of his humane encouragement, he had at that moment
scoffed, threatened, or reviled me. And this was the more kind
in him, because, as I afterwards understood, his own conduct in
his first trial had evinced to all appearances the greatest fearless-
ness, and that he said this therefore only to give me heart, and
restore me to my own good opinion." This anecdote, I trust,
will have some weight with those who may have lent an ear to
any of those vague calumnies from which no naval commander
can secure his good name, who, knowing the paramount necessity
of regularity and strict discipline in a ship of war, adopts an
COLERIDGE.] SIR ALEXANDER BALL. 163
appropriate plan for the attainment of these objects, and remains
constant and immutable in the execution. To an Athenian who,
in praising a public functionary, had said that every one either
applauded him, or left him without censure, a philosopher re-
plied, " How seldom then must he have done his duty 1 "
Of Sir Alexander Ball's character as Captain Ball, of his
measures as a disciplinarian, I have now to speak.* On assuming
the command of a man-of-war, he found a mutinous crew, more
than one-half of them uneducated Irishmen, and of the remainder
no small portion had become sailors by compromise of punish-
ment. What terror could effect by severity and frequency of
acts of discipline, had been already effected. And what was this
effect? Something like that of a polar winter on a flask of
brandy. The furious spirit concentred itself with tenfold strength
at the heart : open violence was changed into secret plots and
conspiracies ; and the consequent orderliness of the crew, as far
as they were orderly, was but the brooding of a tempest. The
new commander instantly commenced a system of discipline as
near as possible to that of ordinary law ; as much as possible, he
avoided, in his own person, the appearance of any will or arbitrary
power to vary, or to remit, punishment. The rules to be observed
were affixed to a conspicuous part of the ship, with the particular
penalties for the breach of each particular rule ; and care was
taken that every individual of the ship should know and under-
stand this code. With a single exception in the case of mutinous
behaviour, a space of twenty-four hours was appointed between
the first charge and the second hearing of the cause, at which
time the accused person was permitted and required to bring
forward whatever he thought conducive to his defence or pallia-
tion. If, as was commonly the case — for the officers well knew
that the commander would seriously resent in them all caprice of
will, and by no means permit to others what he denied to him-
self— no answer could be returned to the three questions — Did
* This part of Mr Coleridge's narrative is taken from a previous section of
"The Friend," and in this place he requests the reader to re-peruse that
passage.
164 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
you not commit the act ? Did you not know that it was in con
tempt of such a rule, and in defiance of such a punishment? And
was it not wholly in your own power to have obeyed the one and
avoided the other? — the sentence was then passed with the
greatest solemnity, and another, but shorter, space of time was
again interposed between it and its actual execution. During this
space the feelings of the commander, as a man, were so well
blended with his inflexibility, as the organ of the law; and how
much he suffered previously to and during the execution of the
sentence, was so well known to the crew, that it became a common
saying with them, when a sailor was about to be punished, the
captain takes it more to heart than the fellow himself. But when-
ever the commander perceived any trait of pride in the offender,
or the germs of any noble feeling, he lost no opportunity of say-
ing, "It is not the pain that you are about to suffer which grieves
me. You are, none of you, I trust, such cowards as to turn faint-
hearted at the thought of that! but that, being a man, and one
who is to fight for his king and country, you should have made it
necessary to treat you as a vicious beast — it is this that grieves me."
I have been assured, both by a gentleman who was a lieutenant
on board that ship at the time, when the heroism of its captain,
aided by his characteristic calmness and foresight, greatly influ-
enced the decision of the most glorious battle recorded in the
annals of our naval history ; and very recently by a gray-headed
sailor, who did not even know my name, or could have suspected
that I was previously acquainted with the circumstances — I have
been assured, I say, that the success of this plan was such as
astonished the oldest officers, and convinced the most incredu-
lous. Ruffians who, like the old Buccaneers, had been used to
inflict torture on themselves for sport, or in order to harden them-
selves beforehand, were tamed and overpowered, how or why they
themselves knew not. From the fiercest spirits were heard the
most earnest entreaties for the forgiveness of their commander :
net before the punishment, for it was too well known that then
they would have been to no purpose, but days after it, when the
bodily pain was remembered but as a dream. An invisible power
COLERIDGE.] SIR ALEXANDER BALL. 165
it was that quelled them, a power which was therefore irresistible,
because it took away the very will of resisting. It was the awful
power of law, acting on natures preconfigured to its influences. A
faculty was appealed to in the offender's own being — a faculty and
a presence of which he had not been previously made aware —
but it answered to the appeal; its real existence therefore could
not be doubted, or its reply rendered inaudible ; and the very
struggle of the wilder passions to keep uppermost, counteracted
their own purpose, by wasting in internal contest that energy
which before had acted in its entireness on external resistance or
provocation. Strength may be met with strength ; the power of
inflicting pain may be baffled by the pride of endurance ; the eye
of rage may be answered by the stare of defiance, or the downcast
look of dark and revengeful resolve, and with all this there is an
outward and determined object to which the mind can attach its
passions and purposes, and bury its own disquietudes in the full
occupation of the senses. But who dares struggle with an invi-
sible combatant — with an enemy which exists and makes us know
its existence — but where it is, we ask in vain 1 No space contains
it — time promises no control over it — it has no ear for my threats
— it has no substance that my hands can grasp, or my weapons
find vulnerable — it commands and cannot be commanded — it acts
and is insusceptible of my reaction — the more I strive to subdue it,
the more am I compelled to think of it, and the more I think of it,
the more do I find it to possess a reality out of myself, and not be a
phantom of my own imagination ; that all, but the most abandoned
men, acknowledge its authority, and that the whole strength and
majesty of my country are pledged to support it; and yet that for
me its power is the same with that of my own permanent self, and
that all the choice which is permitted to me consists in having it
for my guardian angel or my avenging fiend ! This is the spirit of
law ! the lute of Amphion, the harp of Orpheus ! This is the true
necessity which compels man into the social state, now and always,
by a still-beginning, never-ceasing force of moral cohesion.
Shortly after the general peace was established, Captain Ball,
who was now a married man, passed some time with his lady in
1 66 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
France, and, if I mistake not, at Nantes. At the same time, and
in the same town, among the other English visitors, Lord (then
Captain) Nelson happened to be one. In consequence of some
punctilia as to whose business it was to pay the compliment of the
first call, they never met, and this trifling affair occasioned a cold-
ness between the two naval commanders, or in truth a mutual
prejudice against each other. Some years after, both their ships
being close together off Minorca, and near Port Mahon, a violent
storm nearly disabled Nelson's vessel, and in addition to the fury
of the wind, it was night time, and the thickest darkness. Cap-
tain Ball, however, brought his vessel at length to Nelson's assist-
ance, took his ship in tow, and used his best endeavours to bring
her and his own vessel into Port Mahon. The difficulties and the
dangers increased. Nelson considered the case of his own ship
as desperate, and that unless she was immediately left to her own
fate, both vessels would be inevitably lost. He, therefore, with the
generosity natural to him, repeatedly requested Captain Ball to let
him loose ; and, on Ball's refusal, he became impetuous, and en-
forced his demand with passionate threats. Ball then himself took
the speaking trumpet, which the fury of the wind and waves ren-
dered necessary, and with great solemnity, and without the least
disturbance of temper, called out in reply, " I feel confident that
I can bring you in safe ; I, therefore, must not, and, by the help
of Almighty God, I will not, leave you ! " What he promised he
performed : and after they were safely anchored, Nelson came on
board of Ball's ship, and embracing him with all the ardour of
acknowledgment, exclaimed, " A friend in need is a friend in-
deed ! " At this time, and on this occasion, commenced that firm
and perfect friendship between these two great men, which was
interrupted only by the death of the former. The two men whom
Lord Nelson especially honoured were Sir Thomas Troubridge
and Sir Alexander Ball; and once, when they were both present,
on some allusion made to the loss of his arm, he replied, " Who
shall dare tell me that I want an arm, when I have three right
arms — this (putting forward his own left one) and Ball and Trou
bridge V
COLERIDGE.I 57J? ALEXANDER BALL. 167
In the plan of the battle of the Nile it was Lord Nelson's design
that Captains Troubridge and Ball should have led up the attack.
The former was stranded; and the latter, by accident of the wind,
could not bring his ship into the line of battle till some time after
the engagement had become general. With his characteristic
forecast and activity Of (what may not improperly be called)
practical imagination, he had made arrangements to meet every
probable contingency. All the shrouds and sails of the ship, not
absolutely necessary for its immediate management, were tho-
roughly wetted and so rolled up, that they were as hard and as
little inflammable as so many solid cylinders of wood ; every sailor
had his appropriate place and function, and a certain number
were appointed as the firemen, whose sole duty it was to be on
the watch if any part of the vessel should take fire : and to these
men exclusively the charge of extinguishing it was committed.
It was already dark when he brought his ship into action, and laid
her alongside the French L Orient. One particular only I shall
add to the known account of the memorable engagement between
these ships, and this I received from Sir Alexander Ball himself.
He had previously made a combustible preparation, but which,
from the nature of the engagement to be expected, he had pur-
posed to reserve for th° last emergency. But just at the time
when, from several sympvoms, he had every reason to believe that
the enemy would soon strike to him, one of the lieutenants, with-
out his knowledge, threw in the combustible matter; and this it
was that occasioned the tremendous explosion of that vessel,
which, with the deep silence and interruption of the engagement
which succeeded to it, has been justly deemed the sublimest war
incident recorded in history. Yet the incident which followed,
and which has not, I believe, been publicly made known, is
scarcely less impressive, though its sublimity is of a different
character. At the renewal of the battle, Captain Ball, though his
ship was then on fire in three different parts, laid her alongside a
French eighty-four; and a second longer obstinate contest began.
The firing on the part of the French ship having at length for
some time slackened, and then altogether ceased, and yet no.
1 68 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UEREMY TAYLOR.
sign given of surrender, the first lieutenant came to Captain Ball,
and informed him that the hearts of his men were as good as ever,
but that they were so completely exhausted, that they were scarcely
capable of lifting an arm. He asked, therefore, whether, as the
enemy had now ceased firing, the men might be permitted to lie
down by their guns for a short time. After some reflection, Sir
Alexander acceded to the proposal, taking of course the proper
precautions to rouse them again at the moment he thought requi-
site. Accordingly, with the exception of himself, his officers, and
the appointed watch, the ship's crew lay down, each in the place
to which he was stationed, and slept for twenty minutes. They
were then roused ; and started up, as Sir Alexander expressed it,
more like men out of an ambush than from sleep, so co-instan-
taneously did they all obey the summons ! They recommenced
their fire, and in a few minutes the enemy surrendered; and it
was soon after discovered that, during that interval, and almost
immediately after the French ship had first ceased firing, the crew
had sunk down by their guns, and there slept, almost by the side,
as it were, of their sleeping enemy.
[Mr Coleridge continues his interesting narrative through the remainder of
Sir Alexander Ball's life. He dwells upon the noble services he performed in
the two years' siege of Valetta, in the island of Malta, his amazing kindness to
the Maltese; his wisdom as the governor of the island when it became a
British possession ; and the unexampled confidence which he enjoyed from the
Maltese, who looked upon him as a father.]
29. — £)t ljesgwrcs mifr ©fficeg 0f
JEREMY TAYLOR.
QEREMY TAYLOR, Bishop of Down, Connor, and Dromore — one of the
most eloquent of the great divines of the Church of England — was the son of a
barber at Cambridge. He was born in 1613. He says himself that he was
"solely grounded in grammar and mathematics by his father." In his
thirteenth year he was admitted a sizar of Caius College, Cambridge. By 9
sizar was then understood a poor student, who performed humble offices in the
college. Out of this rank have come some of the most eminent of our
scholars. Very early he obtained the patronage of Laud, Archbishop ot
JEREMY TAYLOR.] THE MEASURES AND OFFICES OF FRIENDSHIP. 169
Canterbury; who placed him at All Souls' College, Oxford, and nominated
him, by a stretch of authority, Fellow of that College. In 1637 he was
appointed to the Rectory of Uppingham ; but his living was sequestrated in
the Civil Wars. For some years he suffered poverty and imprisonment; he
kept a school ; he was a dependant upon private bounty. But he laboured
unremittingly; he preached and he published. Upon the Restoration, in
1660, he was nominated by the king to his Irish bishopric. Here he resided
for seven years, discharging his duties with the most exemplary industry, and
endeavouring to win all men to his fold by unremitting love. His period of
prosperity was not of long duration. He died of a fever in 1667, in his fifty-
fifth year. The character of Taylor's writings which was given by his successor,
Dr Rust, in his funeral sermon, is not an exaggeration :— "They will be famous
to all succeeding generations for their greatness of wit, and profoundness of
judgment, and richness of fancy, and clearness of expression, and copiousness
of invention, and general usefulness to all the purposes of a Christian.''
Reginald Heber, the admirable Bishop of Calcutta, has prefixed an excellent
biography of Jeremy Taylor to the valuable edition of his works in 15 vols.
There is also a complete edition sold at a moderate price, in three large
volumes, printed by Mr Childs, of Bungay.]
You first inquire how far a dear and perfect friendship is au-
thorised by the principles of Christianity.
To this I answer, that the word " friendship," in the sense we
commonly mean by it, is not so much as named in the New Testa-
ment; and our religion takes no notice of it. You think it strange;
but read on before you spend so much as the beginning of a
passion or a wonder upon it. There is mention of " friendship
with the world," and it is said to be " enmity with God ; " but the
word is nowhere else named, or to any other purpose, in all the
New Testament. It speaks of friends often ; but by friends are
meant our acquaintance, or our kindred, the relatives of our
family, or our fortune, or our sect; something of society, or some-
thing of kindness, there is in it ; a tenderness of appellation and
civility, a relation made by gifts, or by duty, by services and sub-
jection ; and I think I have reason to be confident, that the word
" friend " (speaking of human intercourse) is no otherwise used
in the Gospels, or Epistles, or Acts of the Apostles : and the reason
of it is, the word " friend " is of a large signification, and means
all relations and societies, and whatsoever is not enemy. But by
1 70 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QERE MY TAYLOR.
friendships I suppose you mean the greatest love, and the greatest
usefulness, and the most open communication, and the noblest
sufferings, and the most exemplary faithfulness, and the severest-
truth, and the heartiest counsel, and the greatest union of minds,
of which brave men and women are capable. But then I must
tell you that Christianity hath new christened it, and calls this
charity. The Christian knows no enemy he hath ; that is, though
persons may be injurious to him, and unworthy in themselves,
yet he knows none whom he is not first bound to forgive, which is
indeed to make them on his part to be no enemies — that is, to
make that the word enemy shall not be perfectly contrary to friend,
it shall not be a relative term, and signify something on each
hand, a relative and a correlation; and then he knows none whom
he is not bound to love and pray for, to treat kindly and justly,
liberally and obligingly. Christian charity is friendship to all the
world; and when friendships were the noblest things in the world,
charity was little, like the sun drawn in at a chink, or his beams
drawn into the centre of a burning-glass; but Christian charity is
friendship expanded like the face of the sun when it mounts above
the eastern hills : and I was strangely pleased when I saw some-
thing of this in Cicero ; for I have been so pushed at by herds and
flocks of people that follow anybody that whistles to them, or drives
them to pasture, that I am grown afraid of any truth that seems
chargeable with singularity : but therefore I say, glad I was when
I saw Lselius in Cicero discourse thus : — " Amicitia ex infmitate
generis humani quam conciliavit ipsa natura, contracta res est, et
adducta in angustum ; ut omnis charitas, aut inter duos, aut inter
paucos jungeretur." Nature hath made friendships and societies,
relations and endearments ; and by something or other we relate
to all the world; there is enough in every man that is willing to
make him become our friend; but when men contract friendships,
they enclose the commons; and what nature intended should be
every man's, we make proper to two or three. Friendship is like
rivers, and the strand of seas, and the air — common to all the
world ; but tyrants, and evil customs, wars, and want of love, have
made them proper and peculiar. But when Christianity came to
JEREMY TAYLOR.] THE MEASURES AND OFFICES OF FRIENDSHIP. 17 1
renew our nature, and to restore our laws, and to increase our
privileges, and to make our aptness to become religion, then it
was declared that our friendships were to be as universal as our
conversation; that is, actual to all with whom we converse, and
potentially extended unto those with whom we did not. For he who
was to treat his enemies with forgiveness and prayers, and love and
beneficence, was indeed to have no enemies, and to have all
friends.
So that to your question, " How far a dear and perfect friendship
is authorised by the principles of Christianity?" the answer is ready
and easy : it is warranted to extend to all mankind ; and the more
' we love, the better we are ; and the greater our friendships are, the
dearer we are to God. Let them be as dear, and let them be as
perfect, and let them be as many as you can ; there is no danger
in it; only where the restraint begins, there begins our imperfec-
tion. It is not ill that you entertain brave friendships and worthy
societies ; it were well if you could love and if you could benefit
all mankind; for I conceive that is the sum of all friendship.
I confess this is not to be expected of us in this world ; but as
all our graces here are but imperfect — that is, at the best they are
but tendencies to glory — so our friendships are imperfect too, and
but beginnings of a celestial friendship by which we shall love
every one as much as they can be loved. But then so we must
here in our proportion ; and, indeed, that is it that can make the
difference ; we must be friends to all — that is, apt to do good,
loving them really, and doing to them all the benefits which we
can, and which they are capable of. The friendship is equal to
all the world, and of itself hath no difference ; but is differenced
only by accidents, and by the capacity or incapacity of them that
receive it.
Nature and religion are the bands of friendship ; excellency
and usefulness are its great endearments ; society and neighbour-
hood— that is, the possibilities and the circumstances of converse
— are the determinations and actualities of it. Now, when men
either are unnatural or irreligious, they will not be friends : when
172 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [JEREMY TAYLOR.
they are neither excellent nor useful, they are not worthy to be
friends ; when they are strangers or unknown, they cannot be
friends actually and practically; but yet, as any man hath any-
thing of the good, contrary to those evils, so he can have and
must have his share of friendship.
For thus the sun is the eye of the world; and he is indifferent
to the negro, or the cold Russian, to them that dwell under the
line and them that stand near the tropics, the scalded Indian, or
the poor boy that shakes at the foot of the Riphean hills. But
the fluxures of the heaven and the earth, the conveniency ot
abode, and the approaches to the north or south respectively,
change the emanations of his beams ; not that they do not pass
always from him, but that they are not equally received below,
but by periods and changes, by little inlets and reflections, they
receive what they can. And some have only a dark day and a
long night from him, snows and white cattle, a miserable life, and
a perpetual harvest of catarrhs and consumptions, apoplexies and
dead palsies. But some have splendid fires and aromatic spices,
rich wines and well-digested fruits, great wit and great courage ;
because they dwell in his eye, and look in his face, and are the
courtiers of the sun,' and wait upon him in his chambers of the
east. Just so is it in friendships; some are worthy, and some
are necessary ; some dwell hard by, and are fitted for converse ;
nature joins some to us, and religion combines us with others;
society and accidents, parity of fortune, and equal dispositions,
do actuate our friendships : which, of themselves and in their
prime disposition, are prepared for all mankind according as any
one can receive them. We see this best exemplified by two
instances and expressions of friendship and charity, viz., alms
and prayers ; every one that needs relief is equally the object of
our charity ; but though to all mankind in equal needs we ought
to be alike in charity, yet we signify this severally and by limits
and distinct measures : the poor man that is near me, he whom I
meet, he whom I love, he whom I fancy, he who did me benefit,
he who relates to my family, he rather than another : because my
expressions, being finite and narrow, and cannot extend to all in
JEREMY TAYLOR.] THE MEASURES AND OFFICES OF FRIENDSHIP. 1 73
equal significations, must be appropriate to those whose circum-
stances best fit me : and yet even to all I give my alms, to all the
world that needs them ; I pray for all mankind ; I am grieved at
every sad story I hear; I am troubled when I hear of a pretty
bride murdered in her bride-chamber by an ambitious and enraged
rival; I shed a tear when I am told that a brave king was mis-
understood, then slandered, then imprisoned, and then put to
death by evil men ; and I can never read the story of the Parisian
massacre, or the Sicilian vespers, but my blood curdles, and I am
disordered by two or three affections. A good man is a friend to
all the world ; and he is not truly charitable that does not wish
well, and do good to all mankind in what he can. But though
we must pray for all men, yet we say special litanies for brave
kings and holy prelates, and the wise guides of souls, for our
brethren and relations, our wives and children.
The effect of this consideration is, that the universal friendship
of which I speak must be limited, because we are so. In those
things where we stand next to immensity and infinity, as in good
wishes and prayers, and a readiness to benefit all mankind, in
these our friendships must not be limited; but in other things
which pass under our hand and eye, our voices and our material
exchanges; our hands can reach no farther but to our arm's end,
and our voices can but sound till the next air be quiet, and there-
fore they can have intercourse but within the sphere of their own
activity; our needs and our conversations are served by a few,
and they cannot reach at all; where they can, they must; but
where it is impossible, it cannot be necessary. It must therefore
follow that our friendships to mankind may admit variety as does
our conversation ; and as by nature we are made sociable to all,
so we are friendly; but as all cannot actually be of our society,
so neither can all be admitted to a special, actual friendship. Of
some intercourses all men are capable, but not of all; men can
pray for one another, and abstain from doing injuries to all the
world, and be desirous to do all mankind good, and love all men :
now this friendship we must pay to all, because we can; but if we
can do no more to all, we must show our readiness to do more
174 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. QEREMY TAYLOR.
good to all, by actually doing more good to all them to whom we
can.
A good man is the best friend, and therefore soonest to be
chosen, longer to be retained; and indeed never to be parted
with, unless he cease to be that for which he was chosen.
For the good man is a profitable, useful person, and that is the
band of an effective friendship. For I do not think that friend-
ships are metaphysical nothings, created for contemplation, or
that men or women should stare upon each other's faces, and
make dialogues of news and prettiness, and look babies in one
another's eyes. Friendship is the allay of our sorrows, the ease
of our passions, the discharge of our oppressions, the sanctuary
to our calamities, the counsellor of our doubts, the charity of our
minds, the emission of our thoughts, the exercise and improve-
ment of what we meditate. And although I love my friend
because he is worthy, yet he is not worthy if he can do me no
good; I do not speak of accidental hindrances and misfortunes by
which the bravest man may become unable to help his child, but
of the natural and artificial capacities of the man. He only is fit
to be chosen for a friend who can do those offices for which friend-
ship is excellent. For (mistake not) no man can be loved for
himself; our perfections in this world cannot reach so high; it is
well if we would love God at that rate ; and I very much fear that
if God did us no good we might admire His beauties, but we
should have but a small proportion of love towards Him; all His
other greatnesses are objects of fear and wonder — it is His good-
ness that makes Him lovely; And so it is in friendships. He
only is fit to be chosen for a friend who can give counsel, or
defend my cause, or guide me right, or relieve my need, or can
and will, when I need it, do me good: only this I add, into the
heaps of doing good, I will reckon, loving me, for it is a pleasure
to be beloved ; but when his love signifies nothing but kissing my
cheek, or talking kindly, and can go no further, it is a prostitution
of the bravery of friendship to spend it upon impertinent people
who are (it may be) loads to their families, but can never ease any
loads; but my friend is a worthy person when he can become to
JEREMY TAYLOR.] THE MEASURES AND OFFICES OF FRIENDSHIP. 175
me, instead of God, a guide or a support, an eye or a hand, a staff
or a rule
Can any wise or good man be angry if I say, I choose this man
to be my friend because he is able to give me counsel, to restrain
my wanderings, to comfort me in my sorrows; he is pleasant to me
in private, and useful in public; he will make my joys double, and
divide my grief between himself and me ? For what else should
I choose 1 For being a fool and useless ? for a pretty face and a
smooth chin ? I confess it is possible to be a friend to one that is
ignorant, and pitiable, handsome and good for nothing, that eats
well, and drinks deep, but he cannot be a friend to me; and I love
him with a fondness or a pity, but it cannot be a noble friendship.
Plutarch calls such friendships " the idols and images of friend-
ship." True and brave friendships are between worthy persons;
and there is in mankind no degree of worthiness, but is also a
degree of usefulness, and by everything by which a man is excel-
lent I may be profited : and because those are the bravest friends
which can best serve the ends of friendships, either we must sup-
pose that friendships are not the greatest comforts in the world,
or else we must say, he chooses his friend best that chooses such
a one by whom he can receive the greatest comforts and assist-
ances.
This being the measure of all friendships, they all partake of
excellency, according as they are fitted to this measure : a friend
may be counselled well enough, though his friend be not the wisest
man in the world; and he may be pleased in his society, though
he be not the best-natured man in the world; but still it must be,
that something excellent is, or is apprehended, or else it can be no
worthy friendship; because the choice is imprudent and foolish.
Choose for your friend him that is wise and good, and secret and
just, ingenuous and honest; and in those things which have a
latitude, use your own liberty; but in such things which consist in
an indivisible point, make no abatements; that is, you must not
choose him to be your friend that is not honest and secret, just and
true to a tittle ; but if he be wise at all, and useful in any degree,
and as good as you can have him, you need not be ashamed to
176 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. QEREMY TAYLOR.
own your own friendships ; though sometimes you may be ashamed
of some imperfections of your friend.
But if you yet inquire, further, whether fancy may be an ingre-
dient in your choice ? I answer, that fancy may minister to this
as to all other actions in which there is a liberty and variety. For
in all things where there is a latitude, every faculty will endeavour
to be pleased, and sometimes the meanest persons in a house have
a festival : even sympathies and natural inclinations to some per-
sons, and a conformity of humours, and proportionable loves, and
the beauty of the face, and a witty answer, may first strike the
flint and kindle a spark, which if it falls upon tender and com-
pliant natures may grow into a flame; but this wil'l never be main-
tained at the rate of friendship unless it be fed by pure materials,
by worthinesses which are the food of friendship. These are the
prettinesses of prosperity and good-natured wit ; but when we
speak of friendship, which is the best thing in the world, (for it is
love and beneficence, it is charity that is fitted for society,) we
cannot suppose a brave pile should be built up with nothing.
But I know not whither I am going : I did only mean to say
that because friendship is that by which the world is most blessed
and receives most good, it ought to be chosen amongst the wor-
thiest persons — that is, amongst those that can do greatest benefit
to each other. And though in equal worthiness I may choose by
my eye, or ear, that is, into the consideration of the essential, I
may take in also the accidental and extrinsic worthinesses ; yet I
ought to give every one their just value : when the internal beau-
ties are equal, these shall help to weigh down the scale, and I will
love a worthy friend that can delight me as well as profit me,
rather than him who cannot delight me at all, and profit me no
more : but yet I will not weigh the gayest flowers, or the wings of
butterflies, against wheat; but when I am to choose wheat, I may
take that which looks the brightest. When I choose my friend, I
will not stay till I have received a kindness: but I will choose such
a one that can do me many if I need them : but I mean such
kindnesses which make me wiser, and which make me better:
that is, I will, when I choose my friend, choose him that is the
GILBERT WHITE.]
THE BRITISH HIRUNDINES.
177
bravest, the worthiest, and the most excellent person; and then
your first question is soon answered. To love such a person, and
to contract such friendships, is just so authorised by the principles
of Christianity, as it is warranted to love wisdom and virtue, good-
ness and beneficence, and all the impresses of God upon the spirits
of brave men.
30. — ®{xe gritisfr
GILBERT
[WHO has not heard of "The Natural History of Selborne," — one of the
most delightful books in the English language ! The author was the Reverend
Gilbert White, who for forty years lived in the retirement of his beautiful native
village, Selborne, in Hampshire, diligently observing the appearances of nature,
and recording them in letters to his friends. He was the first to take Natural
History out of the hands of the mere classifiers, and to show how full of interest
is the commonest object of creation, when carefully examined, and diligently
watched through its course of growth, of maturity, and of decay. Mr White
was borne in 1720, and died in 1793.]
THE HOUSE-MARTIN. — In obedience to your injunctions, I sit
down to give you some account of the house-martin, or martlet ;
and, if my monography of this little, domestic, and familiar bird
VOL. i. M
178 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
should happen to meet with your approbation, I may probably
soon extend my inquiries to the rest of the British hirundines —
the swallow, the swift, and the bank-martin.
A few house-martins begin to appear about the i6th of April ;
usually some few days later than the swallow. For some time
after they appear, the hirundines in general pay no attention to
the business of nidification, but play and sport about, either to
recruit from the fatigue of their journey, if they do migrate at all,
or else that their blood may recover its true tone and texture after
it has been so long benumbed by the severities of winter. About
the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin begins to
think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust
or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as
comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together
with little bits of broken straws to render it tough and tenacious.
As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any
projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first
foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstruc-
ture. On this occasion the bird not only clings with its claws, but
partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall,
making that a fulcrum ; and, thus steadied, it works and plasters
the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that
this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by
its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbear-
ance enough not to advance her work too fast ; but by building
only in the morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day to food
and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. About
half an inch seems to be a sufficient layer for a day. Thus care-
ful workmen when they build mud-walls, (informed at first perhaps
by this little bird,) raise but a moderate layer at a time, and then
desist lest the work should become top-heavy, and so be ruined
by its own weight. By this method in about ten or twelve days
is formed an hemispheric nest, with a small aperture towards the
top, strong, compact, and warm ; and perfectly fitted for all the pur-
poses for which it was intended. But then nothing is more
common than for the house-sparrow, as soon as the shell is
GILBERT WHITE.] THE BRITISH HIR UNDINES. 1 7 9
finished, to seize on it as its own, to eject the owner, and to line
it after its own manner.
After so much labour is bestowed in erecting a mansion, as
nature seldom works in vain, martins will breed on for several
years together in the same nest, where it happens to be well-
sheltered and secure from the injuries of the weather. The shell or
crust of the nest is a sort of rustic work full of nobs and protuber-
ances on the outside : nor is the inside of those that I have ex-
amined smoothed with any exactness at all ; but is rendered soft
and warm, and fit for incubation, by a lining of small straws,
grasses, and feathers ; and sometimes by a bed of moss inter-
woven with wool.
As the young of small birds presently arrive at their full growth,
they soon become impatient of confinement, and sit all day with
their heads out at the orifice, where the dams, by clinging to the
nest, supply them with food from morning till night. For a time
the young are fed on the wing by their parents ; but the feat is
done by so quick and almost imperceptible a sleight, that a per-
son must have attended very exactly to their motions before he
would be able to perceive it. As soon as the young are able to
shift for themselves, the dams immediately turn their thoughts to
the business of a second brood ; while the first flight, shaken off
and rejected by their nurses, congregate in great flocks, and are
the birds that are seen clustering and hovering on sunny morn-
ings and evenings round towers and steeples, and on the roofs of
churches and houses. These congregations usually begin to take
place about the first week in August ; and therefore we may
conclude that by that time the first flight is pretty well over. The
young of this species do not quit their abodes altogether ; but the
more forward birds get abroad some days before the rest These
approaching the eaves of buildings and playing about before them,
make people think that several old ones attend one nest. They
are often capricious in fixing on a nesting-place, beginning many
edifices, and leaving them unfinished ; but when once a nest is
completed in a sheltered place, it serves for several seasons.
Those which breed in a ready-finished house get the start, in
l8o HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
hatching, of those that build new, by ten days or a fortnight
These industrious artificers are at their labours in the long days
before four in the morning : when they fix their materials they
plaster them on with their chins, moving their heads with a quick
vibratory motion. They dip and wash as they fly sometimes in
very hot weather, but not so frequently as swallows. It has been
observed that martins usually build to a north-east or north-west
aspect, that the heat of the sun may not crack and destroy their
nests; but instances are also remembered, where they bred for
many years in vast abundance in a hot stifled inn-yard, against a
wall facing to the south.
Martins are by far the least agile of the four species; their wings
and tails are short, and therefore they are not capable of such sur-
prising turns, and quick and glancing evolutions, as the swallow.
Accordingly they make use of a placid easy motion in a middle
region of the air, seldom mounting to any great height, and never
sweeping long together over the surface of the ground or water.
They do not wander far for food, but affect sheltered districts,
over some lake, or under some hanging wood, or in some hollow
vale, especially in windy weather. They breed the latest of all
the swallow kind. In 1772, they had nestlings on to the 2ist of
October, and are never without unfledged young as late as
Michaelmas.
As the summer declines, the congregating flocks increase in
numbers daily by the constant accession of the second broods,, till
at last they swarm in myriads upon myriads round the villages on
the Thames, darkening the face of the sky as they frequent the
aits of that river, where they roost. They retire, the bulk of them
I mean, in vast flocks together, about the beginning of October ;
but have appeared of late years, in a considerable flight, in this
neighbourhood, for one day or two, as late as the 3d and 6th of
November, after they were supposed to have been gone for more
than a fortnight. They, therefore, withdrew with us the latest of
any species. Unless these birds are short-lived, indeed, or unless
they do not return to the district where they are bred, they must
undergo vast devastations somehow, and somewhere; for the birds
GILBERT WHITE. ] THE BRITISH HIR UNDINES. 1 8 1
that return yearly bear no manner of proportion to the birds that
retire.
THE CHIMNEY-SWALLOW. — The house-swallow, or chimney
swallow, is, undoubtedly, the first comer of all the British hirun-
dines, and appears in general on or about the 1 3th of April, as I
have remarked from many years' observation. Not but now and
then a straggler is seen much earlier; and, in particular, when
was a boy, I observed a swallow for a whole day together, on a
sunny warm Shrove Tuesday ; which day could not fall out later
than the middle of March, and often happened early in February.
It was worth remarking, that these birds are seen first about
lakes and mill-ponds ; and it is also very particular, that if these
early visitors happen to find frost and snow, as was the case of the
two dreadful springs of 1770 and 1771, they immediately with-
draw for a time, — a circumstance this, much more in favour of
hiding than migration ; since it is much more probable that a bird
should retire to its hybernaculum, just at hand, than return for a
week or two only to warmer latitudes.
The swallow, though called the chimney-swallow, by no means
builds altogether in chimneys, but often within barns and out-
houses against the rafters, and so she did in Virgil's time :
" Ants
Garrula quam tignis nidum suspendat hirundo."
In Sweden, she builds in barns, and is called ladu swala, the
barn-swallow. Besides, in the warmer parts of Europe there are
no chimneys to houses, except they are English-built ; in these
countries she constructs her nest in porches, and gateways, and
galleries, and open halls.
Here and there a bird may affect some odd peculiar place ; as we
have known a swallow build down the shaft of an old well, through
which chalk had been formerly drawn up for the purpose of ma-
nure ; but, in general, with us the hirundo breeds in chimneys,
and loves to haunt those stalks where there is a constant fire, no
doubt for the sake of warmth. Not that it can subsist in the im
mediate shaft where there is a fire ; but prefers one adjoining to
1 82 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
that of the kitchen, and disregards the perpetual smoke of that
funnel, as I have often observed with some degree of wonder.
Five or six or more feet down the chimney does this little bird
begin to form her nest about the middle of May, which consists,
like that of the house-martin, of a crust or shell composed of dirt
or mud, mixed with short pieces of straw, to render it tough and
permanent ; with this difference, that whereas the shell of the
martin is nearly hemispheric, that of the swallow is open at the
top, and like half a deep dish : this nest is lined with fine grasses
and feathers, which are often collected as they float in the air.
Wonderful is the address which this adroit bird shows all day
long in ascending and descending, with security, through so nar-
row a pass. When hovering over the mouth of the funnel, the
vibrations of her wings acting on the confined air occasion a rum-
bling like thunder. It is not improbable that the dam submits to
this inconvenient situation so low in the shaft, in order to secure
her broods from rapacious birds, and particularly from owls, which
frequently fall down chimneys, perhaps in attempting to get at
these nestlings.
The swallow lays from four to six white eggs, dotted with red
specks, and brings out her first brood about the last week in June,
or the first week in July. The progressive method by which the
young are introduced into life is very amusing ; first they emerge
from the shaft with difficulty enough, and often fall down into the
rooms below : for a day or so they are fed on the chimney-top, and
then are conducted to the dead leafless bough of some tree,
where, sitting in a row, they are attended with great assiduity, and
may then be called perchers. In a day or two more they become
flyers, but are still unable to take their own food; therefore they
play about near the place where the dams are hawking for flies ;
and when a mouthful is collected, at a certain signal given, the
dam and the nestling advance, rising towards each other, and
meeting at an angle ; the young one all the while uttering such a
little quick note of gratitude and complacency, that a person must
have paid very little regard to the wonders of nature that has not
often remarked this feat.
GILBERT WHITE.] THE BRITISH II IR UNDINES. 183
The dam betakes herself immediately to the business of a second
t>rood as soon as she is disengaged from the first ; which at once
associates with the first broods of house-martins ; and with them
congregates, clustering on sunny roofs, towers, and trees. This
hirundo brings out her second brood towards the middle and end
of August.
All the summer long is the swallow a most instructive pattern
of unwearied industry and affection; for, from morning to night,
while there is a family to be supported, she spends the whole day
in skimming close to the ground, arid exerting the most sudden
turns and quick evolutions. Avenues, and long walks under
hedges, and pasture-fields, and mown meadows where cattle graze,
are her delight, especially if there are trees interspersed; because
in such spots insects most abound. When a fly is taken, a smart
snap from her bill is heard, resembling the noise at the shutting of
a watch-case ; but the motion of the mandibles is too quick for
the eye.
The swallow, probably the male bird, is the excubitor to house-
martins, and other little birds, announcing the approach of birds
of prey. For, as soon as a hawk appears, with a shrill alarming
note he calls all the swallows and martins about him, who pursue
in a body, and buffet and strike their enemy till they have driven
him from the village, darting down from above on his back, and
rising in a perpendicular line in perfect security. This bird also
will sound the alarm, and strike at cats when they climb on the
roofs of houses, or otherwise approach the nests. Each species
of Hirundo drinks as it flies along, sipping the surface of the
water ; but the swallow alone, in general, washes on the wing, by
dropping into a pool for many times together : in very hot weather
house-martins and bank-martins dip and wash a little.
The swallow is a delicate songster, and in soft sunny weather
sings both perching and flying ; on trees in a kind of concert, and
on chimney-tops : is also a bold flyer, ranging to distant downs
and commons, even in windy weather, which the other species
seem much to dislike; nay, even frequenting exposed seaport
towns, and making little excursions over the salt water. Horsemen
184 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
on wide downs are often closely attended by a little party of
swallows for miles together, which play before and behind them,
sweeping around, and collecting all the skulking insects that are
roused by the trampling of the horses' feet ; when the wind blows
hard, without this expedient, they are often forced to settle to pick
up their lurking prey.
This species feed much on little coleoptera, as well as on gnats
and flies ; and often settles on dug ground, or paths, for gravel
to grind and digest its food. Before they depart, for some weeks,
to a bird, they forsake houses and chimneys, and roost in trees,
and usually withdraw about the beginning of October; though
some few stragglers may appear on, at times, till the first week
in November.
THE SAND-MARTIN. — The sand-martin, or bank-martin, is by
much the least of any of the British hirundines ; and, as far as we
have seen, the smallest known hirundo : though Brisson asserts
that there is one much smaller, and that is the hirundo escu-
lenta.
But it is much to be regretted that it is scarce possible for any
observer to be so full and exact as he could wish in reciting the
circumstances attending the life and conversation of this little
bird, since it is fera natura, at least in this part of the kingdom,
disclaiming all domestic attachments, and haunting wild heaths
and commons where there are large lakes ; while the other species,
especially the swallow and house-martin, are remarkably gentle
and domesticated, and never seem to think themselves safe but
under the protection of man.
It is curious to observe with what different degrees of archi-
tectonic skill Providence has endowed birds of the same genus,
and so nearly correspondent in their general mode of life ! for,
while the swallow and the house-martin discover the greatest
address in raising and securely fixing crusts or shells of loam as
cunabula for their young, the bank-martin terebrates a round and
regular hole in the sand or earth, which is serpentine, horizontal, and
about two feet deep. At the inner end of this burrow does this bird
deposit, in a good degree of safety, her rude nest, consisting ot
GILBERT WHITE.] THE BRITISH HIR UNDINES. 185
fine grasses and feathers, usually goose feathers, very inartificially
laid together.
Perseverance will accomplish anything; though at first one
would be disinclined to believe that this weak bird, with her soft
and tender bill and claws, should ever be able to bore the stubborn
sand-bank without entirely disabling herself; yet with these feeble
instruments have I seen a pair of them make great despatch, and
could remark how much they had scooped that day by the fresh
sand that ran down the bank, and was a different colour from that
which lay loose and bleached in the sun.
The sand-martin arrives much about the same time with the
swallow, and lays, as she does, from four to six white eggs. But
as this species is cryptogame, carrying on the business of nidifica-
tion, incubation, and the support of its young in the dark, it
would not be so easy to ascertain the time of breeding, were it
not for the coming forth of the broods, which appear much about
the time, or rather somewhat earlier than those of the swallow.
The nestlings are supported in common like those of their con-
geners, with gnats and other small insects ; and sometimes they
are fed with libellula (dragon-flies) almost as long as themselves.
In the last week of June, we have seen a row of these sitting on a
rail, near a great pool, zsperchers, and so young and helpless as
easily to be taken by hand; but whether the dams ever feed them
on the wing, as swallows and house-martins do, we have never yet
been able to determine : nor do we know whether they pursue and
attack birds of prey.
When they happen to breed near hedges and enclosures, they
are dispossessed of their breeding holes by the house-sparrow,
which is on the same account a fell adversary to house-martins.
These hirundines are no songsters, but rather mute, making
only a little harsh noise when a person approaches their nests.
They seem not to be of a sociable turn, never with us congregat-
ing with their congeners in the autumn. Undoubtedly they breed
a second time, like the house-martin and swallow : and withdraw
about Michaelmas.
Though in some particular districts they may happen to abound,
1 86 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
yet, in the whole, in the south of England at least, this is much
the rarest species. For there are few towns or large villages but
what abound with house-martins; few churches, towers, or steeples,
but what are haunted by some swifts ; scarce a hamlet or single
cottage-chimney that has not its swallow; while the bank-martins,
scattered here and there, live a sequestered life among some
abrupt sandhills, and in the banks of some few rivers.
THE SWIFT. — As the swift, or black-martin, is the largest of the
British hirundines, so is it undoubtedly the latest comer. For I
remember but one instance of its appearing before the last week
in April; and in some of our late frosty harsh springs, it has not
been seen till the beginning of May. This species usually arrives
in pairs.
The swift, like the sand-martin, is very defective in architec-
ture, making no crust, or shell, for its nest ; but forming it of dry
grasses and feathers, very rudely and inartificially put together.
Swifts, like sand-martins, carry on the business of nidification
quite in the dark, in crannies of castles, and towers, and steeples,
and upon the tops of the walls of churches, under the roof; and
therefore cannot be so narrowly watched as those species that
build more openly; but, from what I could ever observe, they
begin nesting about the middle of May; and I have remarked,
from eggs taken, that they have sat hard by the pth of June.
This hirundo differs widely from its congeners in laying invari-
ably but two eggs at a time, which are milk white, long, and
peaked at the small end ; whereas the other species lay at each
brood from, four to six. It is a most alert bird, rising very early,
and retiring to roost very late ; and is on the wing in the height
of summer at least sixteen hours. In the longest day it does not
withdraw to rest till a quarter before nine in the evening, being
the latest of all day birds. Just before they retire, whole groups
of them assemble high in the air, and squeak and shoot about with
wonderful rapidity. But this bird is never so much alive as in
sultry thundery weather, when it expresses great alacrity, and calls
forth all its powers. In hot mornings, several, getting together
in little parties, dash round the steeples and churches, squeaking
GILBERT WHITE.] THE BRITISH HIR UNDINES. 187
as they go in a very clamorous manner; these, by nice observers,
are supposed to be males serenading their sitting hens; and not
without reason, since they seldom squeak till they come close to
the walls and eaves, and since those within utter at the same time
a little inward note of complacency.
When the hen has sat hard all day, she rushes forth just as it
is almost dark, and stretches and relieves her weary limbs, and
snatches a scanty meal for a few minutes, and then returns to hei
duty of incubation. Swifts, when wantonly and cruelly shot while
they have young, discover a little lump of insects in their mouths,
which they pouch and hold under their tongue. In general they
feed in a much higher district than the other species ; a proof that
gnats and other insects do also abound to a considerable height
in the air; they also range to vast distances, since locomotion is
no labour to them who are endowed with such wonderful powers of
wing. Their powers seem to be in proportion to their levers; and
their wings are longer in proportion than those of "almost any
other bird.
At some certain times in the summer, I had remarked that
swifts were hawking very low for hours together, over pools and
streams, and could not help inquiring into the object of their pur-
suit that induced them to descend so much below their usual
range. After some trouble, I found that they were taking phry-
qanecz, ephemera, and libellulcz (cadew-flies, may-flies, and dragon-
flies) that were just emerged out of their aurelia state. I then no
longer wondered that they should be so willing to stoop for a prey
that afforded them such plentiful and succulent nourishment.
They bring out their young about the middle or latter end of
July; but as these never become perchers, nor, that ever I could
discern, are fed on their wing by their dams, the coming of the
young is not so notorious as in the other species.
On the 3oth of last June I untiled the eaves of a house
where many pairs build, and found in each nest only two squab,
naked pulli: on the 8th of July I repeated the same ' inquiry,
and found they had made very little progress towards a fledged
state, but were still naked and helpless. From whence we may
1 88 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GILBERT WHITE.
conclude that birds whose way of life keeps them perpetually on
the wing, would not be able to quit their nest till the end of the
month. Swallows and martins, that have numerous families, are
continually feeding them every two or three minutes; while swifts,
that have but two young to maintain, are much at their leisure,
and do not attend on their nests for hours together.
There is a circumstance respecting the colour of swifts, which
seems not to be unworthy our attention. When they arrive in the
spring, they are all, over of a glossy, dark soot colour, except their
chins, which are white; but, by being all day long in the sun and
air, they become quite weather-beaten and bleached before they
depart, and yet they return glossy again in the spring. Now, if
they pursue the sun into lower latitudes, as some suppose, in order
to enjoy a perpetual summer, why do they not return bleached?
Do they not rather perhaps retire to rest for a season, and at that
juncture moult and change their feathers, since all other birds are
known to moult soon after the season of breeding1?
Swifts are very anomalous in many particulars, dissenting from
all their congeners not only in the number of their young, but in
breeding but once in a summer; whereas all the other British
hirundines breed invariably twice. It is past all doubt that swifts
can breed but once, since they withdraw in a short time after the
flight of their young, and some time before their congeners bring
out their second broods. We may here remark, that as swifts
breed but once in a summer, and only two at a time, and the other
hirundines twice^ the latter, who lay from four to six eggs, increase
at an average five times as fast as the former.
But in nothing are swifts more singular than in their early re-
treat. They retire, as to the main body of them, by the loth of
August, and sometimes a few days sooner; and every straggler
invariably withdraws by the 2oth, while their congeners, all of
them, stay till the beginning of October ; many of them all through
the month, and some occasionally to the beginning of November.
This early retreat is mysterious and wonderful, since that time is
often the sweetest season in the year. But, what is most extra-
ordinary, they begin to retire still earlier in the most southerly
JANE AUSTEN.] THE VOLUBLE LADY. jgQ
parts of Andalusia, where they can be nowise influenced by any
defect of heat ; or, as one might suppose, defect of food. Are they
regulated in their motions with us by a failure of food, or by a
propensity to moulting, or by a disposition to rest after so rapid a
life, or by what 1 This is one of those incidents in natural history
that not only baffles our researches, but almost eludes our guesses.
On the 5th of July 1775, I again untiled part of a roof ovei
the nest of a swift. The dam sat in the nest ; but so strongly was
she affected by natural love for her brood, which is supposed to
be in danger, that, regardless of her own safety, she would not
stir, but lay sullenly by them, permitting herself to be taken in
hand. The squab young we brought down and placed on the
grass-plot, where they tumbled about, and were as helpless as a
new-born child. While we contemplated their naked bodies,
their unwieldy disproportioned abdomina, and their heads, too
heavy for their necks to support, we could not but wonder when
we reflected that these shiftless beings, in a little more than a
fortnight, would be able to dash through the air almost with the
inconceivable swiftness of a meteor ; and perhaps, in their emigra-
tion, must traverse vast continents and oceans as distant as the
equator.
JANE AUSTEN.
[OF the hundreds of novels that have been published since the beginning of
the present century, who can remember even the names of a twentieth part?
The larger number are quietly sleeping on the shelves of the circulating
libraries of the country towns, destined only to see the light when some
voracious spinster has exhausted all that is new of a teeming press, and in
desperation plunges into the antiquities of a past generation. But there are
six novels that can never be old — the works of the inimitable Jane Austen.
No dust will ever settle on them, even in the libraries of the least tasteful of
communities. Old and young, learned and unlearned, equally delight in the
productions of the marvellous young woman, who drew the commonest inci-
dents and characters of the most ordinary domestic life, with a skilfulness that
manifests, more than anything we know, the surpassing power of that art
19° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JANE AUSTEN.
which makes realities more true than the thing itself beheld through a common
medium. This is, indeed, genius. Jane Austen, the daughter of the rector of
Steventon, in Hampshire, was born in 1775 — died in 1817.]
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen,
walked into the room. Everybody's words were soon lost under
the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had
not finished her speech under many minutes after her being ad-
mitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was
heard, —
" So very obliging of you ! — No rain at all. Nothing to signify.
I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares
— Well! (as soon as she was within the door,) well! This is bril-
liant indeed! This is admirable. Excellently contrived, upon
my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it. So
well lighted up ! Jane, Jane, look! did you ever see anything?
Oh, Mr Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good
Mrs Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I
came in ; she was standing in the entrance. ' Oh, Mrs Stokes,'
said I, but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs
Weston. " Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite
well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a head-
ache ! seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble
you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah ! dear Mrs
Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage — excellent time— Jane
and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most
comfortable carriage. Oh — and I am sure our thanks are due to
you, Mrs Weston, on that score, Mrs Elton had most kindly sent
Jane a note, or we should have been. But two such offers in one
day ! Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, ' Upon
my word, ma'am.' Thank you — my mother is remarkably well
Gone to Mr Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl, for the
evenings are not warm — her large, new shawl, Mrs Dixon's wed-
ding-present. So kind of her to think of my mother. Bought at
Weymouth, you know; Mr Dixon's choice. There were three
others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel
JANE AUSTEN.] THE VOLUBLE LADY. IQI
Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure
you did not wet your feet 1 It was but a drop or two, but I am
so afraid; but Mr Frank Churchill was so extremely — and there
was a mat to step upon. I shall never forget his extreme polite-
ness. Oh, Mr Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spec-
tacles have never been in fault since ; the rivet never came out
again. My mother often talks of your good-nature — does not
she, Jane? Do not we often talk of Mr Frank Churchill ] Ah !
here's Miss Woodhouse. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you
do ? Very well, I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite
in fairy-land. Such a transformation ! Must not compliment, I
know (eyeing Emma most complacently) — that would be rude;
but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look — how do you
like Jane's hair? You are a judge. She did it all herself. Quite
wonderful how she does her hair J No hairdresser from London,
I think, could. Ah, Dr Hughes, I declare — and Mrs Hughes.
Must go and speak to Dr and Mrs Hughes for a moment. How
do you do ? how do you do ? Very well, I thank you. This is
delightful, is it not ? Where 's dear Mr Richard ? Oh, there he
is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the
young ladies. How do you do, Mr Richard ? I saw you the
other day as you rode through the town. Mrs Otway, I protest!
and good Mr Otway, and Miss Otway, and Miss Caroline. Such
a host of friends ! and Mr George and Mr Arthur ! How do you
do 1 how do you do ? Quite well — I am much obliged to you.
Never better. Don't I hear another carriage ^ Who can this be ?
very likely the worthy Coles. Upon my word, this is charming,
to be standing among such friends ! And such a noble fire ! I
am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me; never take
coifee. A little tea if you please, sir, by and by ; no hurry. Oh,
here it comes; everything so good !"
• • • • • • •
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates
might be heard from that moment without interruption, till her
being seated at table and taking up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you? Here is your
1 9 2 HALP-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. (JANE AUSTEN.
tippet. Mrs Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says
she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though every-
thing has been done ; one door nailed up — quantities of matting;
my dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr Churchill — oh, you are too
obliging ! How well you put it on — so gratified ! Excellent
dancing indeed ! Yes, my dear, I ran home as I said I should,
to help grandmamma to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me. I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmamma was quite well; had a charming evening with Mr
Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and backgammon. Tea was
made down stairs — biscuits and baked apples and wine before she
came away ; amazing luck in some of her throws ; and she in-
quired a great deal about you — how you were amused, and who
were your partners. 'Oh!' said I, ' I shall not forestall Jane; I
left her dancing with Mr George Otway; she will love to tell you
all about it herself to-morrow. Her first partner was Mr Elton ;
I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr William Cox.'
My dear sir, you are too obliging. Is there nobody you would
not rather? — I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon
my word, Jane on one arm and me on the other! Stop, stop, let
us stand a little back, Mrs Elton is going — dear Mrs Elton, how
elegant she looks! Beautiful lace! Now we all follow in her
train. Quite the queen of the evening ! Well, here we are at the
passage. Two steps — Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh, no,
there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How
very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there is but one.
I never saw anything equal to the comfort and style — candles
everywhere. I was telling you of your grandmamma, Jane — there
was a little disappointment. The baked apples and biscuits —
excellent in their way, you know ; but there was a delicate fricassee
of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good
Mr Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough,
sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmamma loves
better than sweetbread and asparagus, so she was rather dis-
appointed ; but we agreed we would not speak of it to anybody,
for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would
VARIOUS.] MAY. 193
be so very much concerned. Well, this is brilliant ! I am all
amazement ! — could not have supposed anything — such elegance
and profusion ! I have seen nothing like it since. Well, where
shall we sit — where shall we sit ? Anywhere, so that Jane is not
in a draught. Where / sit is of no consequence. Oh ! do you
recommend this side ? Well, I am sure, Mr Churchill — only it
seems too good ; but just as you please. What you direct in this
house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect
half the dishes for grandmamma ? Soup, too ! Bless me ! I
should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I
cannot help beginning."
32.—
THE May of the Poets is a beautiful generalisation, which sometimes looks
like a mockery of the keen east winds, the leafless trees, the hedges without a
blossom, of late springs. In an ungenial season we feel the truth of one poeti-
cal image, —
" Winter, lingering, chills the lap of May ; "
but we are apt to believe that those who talk of halcyon skies, of odorous
gales, of leafy thickets filled with the chorus of Nature's songsters, — to say
nothing of Ladies of the May, and morrice-dancers in the sunshine, — have
drawn their images from the Southern poets.
In such a season, — which makes us lingjr over our fires, when we ought to
be strolling in the shade of bright green lanes, or loitering by a gushing rivulet
to watch the trout rise at the sailing fly, — some nameless writer has seen a
single feeble swallow, and has fancied the poor bird was a thing to moralise
upon : —
THE FIRST SWALLOW.
He has come before the daffodils, Oh ! he has left his mother's home :
The foolish and impatient bird : He thought there was a genial clime
The sunniest noon hath yet its chills, Where happy birds might safely roam,
The cuckoo's voice not yet is heard, And he would seek that land in
The lamb is shivering on the lea, time.
The cowering lark forbears to Presumptuous one ! his elders knew
sing,— The dangers of these fickle skies ;
And he has come across the sea Away the pleasure-seeker flew —
To find a winter in the spring. Nipp'd by untimely frosts he dies.
VOL. I. N
IQ4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
There is a land in Youth's first Rush to the world, unguided youth,
dreams Prove its false joys, its friendships
Whose year is one delicious May, hollow,
And Life, beneath the brightest Its bitter scorns, — then turn to truth,
beams, And find a lesson in the unwise
Flows on, a gladsome holiday; swallow.
Away with these wintry images ! There is a south wind rising ; the cold
gray clouds open ; the sun breaks out. Then comes a warm sunny shower.
A day or two of such showers and sunshine, and the branches of the trees,
that looked so sere,
" Thrust out their little hands into the ray." *
The May of the Poets is come ; — at any rate we will believe that it is come.
WORDSWORTH shall welcome it in a glorious song : —
Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief ;
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong :
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,'
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;—
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
shepherd boy !
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel— I feel it all
* We quote Leigh Hunt from memory ; for the poem in which this line
occurs is not printed hi any recent edition of his works.
VARIOUS.] MAY. 195
Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen
While the Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are pulling,
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm.
WORDSWORTH.
SPENSER shall paint " fair May " and her train in noble words —
Then come, fair May, the fairest maid on ground,
Deck'd all with dainties of her season's pride,
And throwing flowers out of her lap around :
Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride,
The twins of Leda, which on either side
Supported her like to their sovereign queen.
Lord ! how all creatures laught when her they spied,
And leapt and danced as they had ravish'd been,
And Cupid self about her flutter'd all in green.
SPENSER.
JAMES I. welcomes the May, as if Scotland had no cutting winds to shame
his song of " Away, Winter, away !" —
Now was there made, fast by the Toure's wall,
A garden fair, and in the corners set
Ane herber green, with wandes long and small
Rail'd about ; and so with trees set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,
That life was none walking there forby
That might within scarce any wight espy.
So thick the bewes and the leaves green
Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And middes every herber might be seen
The sharpe, greene, sweete juniper,
Growing so fair with branches here and there^
That, as it seem'd to a life without,
The bewes spread the herber all about.
And on the smale greene twistes sate
The little sweete nightingale, and sung
So loud and clear the hymnes consecrate
Of love's use, now soft, now loud among
That of the gardens, and the walles rung
196 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [VARIOUS.
Right out their song, and on the couple next
Of their sweet harmony; and lo, the text : —
Worshippe, ye that lovers been, this May,
For of your bliss the kalends are begun,
And sing with us, Away, winter, away !
Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun ;
Awake, for shame ! that have your heavens won,
And amorously lift up your heades all :
Hark, Love, that list you to his mercy call.
JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.
A poet of the Shaksperean age has the same lesson, " Rejoice in May :" — •
When May is in his prime, Full strange it is, yet some we see,
Then may each heart rejoice : Do make their May in June.
When May bedecks each branch with Thug things afe strangely ^^^
S16611' Whiles joyful May doth last.
Each bird strains forth his voice. Take May in ^ . when May ^
The lively sap creeps up gone,
Into the blooming thorn ; The pleasant time is past.
The flowers, which cold in prison kept, AU that liye on earth>
Now laugh the frost to scorn. And haye your May at ^
All Nature's imps triumph Rejoice in May, as I do now,
Whiles joyful May doth last; And use your May with skill.
When May is gone, of all the year Us£ M while that you
The pleasant time is past. For May hath but his tlme .
May makes the cheerful hue, When all the fruit is gone, it is
May breeds and brings new blood, Too late the tree to climb.
May marcheth throughout every limb, your Hking and your lust
May makes the merry mood. Ig fresh wMes May doth ^ ,
May pricketh tender hearts, When May is gone, of all the year
Their warbling notes to tune. The pleasant time is past.
EDWARDS.
After this old English Epicurean philosophy of "Take May in time," the
Transatlantic child of our native muse can scarcely be called original : —
The sun is bright,— the air is clear, Where, waiting till the west wind
The darting swallows soar and sing, blows,
And from the stately elms I hear The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
The blue-bird prophesying spring. AU thmgs are new;_the buds, the
leaves,
So blue yon winding river flows, That gild the elm-tree's nodding
It seems an outlet from the sky, crest,
DANIEL WEBSTER.] PROGRESS OF THE MECHANICAL ARTS.
197
And even the nest beneath the eaves ; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
There are no birds in last year's nest ! For, oh, it is not always May !
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight !
Enjoy the spring of love ^ youth>
To some good ^g^ leave the rest .
And learn from the soft heavens above -por time ^i teach thee soon the
The melting tenderness of night
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ;
truth,
There are no birds in last year's
nest !
LONGFELLOW.
But who can be original with a theme upon which poets in all ages have
written? We forgot the ditty which Master Touchstone calls "a foolish
song:" —
It was a lover and his lass, Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, with a ho, with a hey, no With a hey, and a ho, and a hey, no,
nee no, &c.
And a hey no nee no ni no, These pretty country fools did lie,
That o'er the green corn-fields did In spring-time, &c.
pass,
In spring-time, the only pretty ring- JJ^caijl they b^a that IMW
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey, no,
How that life was but a flower,
In spring-time, &c.
When birds do sin?, hey ding, a ding,
a di .
Sweet lovers love the spring.
In spring-time, the only pretty ring- Then pretty lovers take the time,
time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey, no,
When birds do sing, hey ding, a ding, &c.
a ding ; For love is crown'd with the prime,
Sweet lovers love the spring. In spring-time, &c.*
33.—
0f
DANIEL WEBSTER.
[THE following is extracted from a Lecture delivered before the Boston
Mechanics' Institution, in 1828. Mr Webster was one of the most distin-
guished orators of the United States, and, what is higher praise, a man of
benevolent and pacific views. He died in 1852.]
* We print this, as it is given in Mr Chappell's excellent collection of old
English Songs, from an ancient MS. The reader may compare it with the
version in "As You Like It."
198 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DANIEL WEBSTER.
Human sagacity, stimulated by human wants, seizes first on the
nearest natural assistant. The power of his own arm is an early
lesson among the studies of primitive man. This is animal strength ;
and from this he rises to the conception of employing, for his own
use, the strength of other animals. A stone, impelled by the powei
of his arm, he finds will produce a greater effect than the arm
itself; this is a species of mechanical power. The effect results
from a combination of the moving force with the gravity of a
heavy body. The limb of a tree is a rude but powerful instru-
ment; it is a lever. And the mechanical powers being all dis-
covered, like other natural qualities, by induction, (I use the word
as Bacon used it,) or experience, and not by any reasoning a
priori, their progress has kept pace with the general civilisation
and education of nations. The history of mechanical philosophy,
while it strongly illustrates, in its general results, the force of the
human mind, exhibits, in its details, most interesting pictures of
ingenuity struggling with the conception of new combinations,
and of deep, intense, and powerful thought, stretched to its utmost
to find out, or deduce, the general principle from the indications
of particular facts. We are now so far advanced beyond the age
when the principal, leading, important mathematical discoveries
were made, and they have become so much matter of common
knowledge, that it is not easy to feel their importance, or be
justly sensible what an epoch in the history of science each con-
stituted. The half frantic exultation of Archimedes, when he had
solved the problem respecting the crown of Hiero, was on an
occasion and for a cause certainly well allowing very high joy.
And so also was the duplication of the cube.
The altar of Apollo, at Athens, was a square block or cube,
and to double it required the duplication of the cube. This was
a process involving an unascertained mathematical principle. It
was quite natural, therefore, that it should be a traditional story,
that by way of atoning for some affront to that god, the oracle
commanded the Athenians to double his altar; an injunction, we
know, which occupied the keen sagacity of the Greek geometri-
cians for more than half a century before they were able to obey
DANIEL WEBSTER.] PROGRESS OF THE MECHANICAL ARTS. 199
it. It is to the great honour, however, of this inimitable people,
the Greeks, a people whose genius seems to have been equally
fitted for the investigations of science and the works of imagina-
tion, that the immortal Euclid, centuries before our era, composed
his "Elements of Geometry;" a work which, for two thousand
years, has been, and still continues to be, a text-book for instruc-
tion in that science.
A history of mechanical philosophy, however, would not begin
with Greece. There is a wonder beyond Greece. Higher up in
the annals of mankind, nearer, far nearer, to the origin of our
race, out of all reach of letters, beyond the sources of tradition,
beyond all history except what remains in the monuments of her
own art, stands Egypt, the mother of nations ! Egypt ! Thebes !
the Labyrinth ! the Pyramids ! Who shall explain the mysteries
which these names suggest ? The Pyramids ! Who can inform
us whether it was by mere numbers, and patience, and labour,
perhaps aided by the simple lever; or if not, by what forgotten
combinations of power, by what now unknown machines, mass
was thus aggregated to mass, and quarry piled on quarry, till solid
granite seemed to cover the earth and reach the skies ?
The ancients discovered many things, but they left many things
also to be discovered; and this, as a general truth, is what our
posterity, a thousand years hence, will be able to say, doubtless,
when we and our generation shall be recorded also among the
ancients. For, indeed, God seems to have proposed His material
universe as a standing perpetual study to His intelligent creatures;
where, ever learning, they can yet never learn all; and if that
material universe shall last till man shall have discovered all that
is unknown, but which, by the progressive improvement of his
faculties, he is capable of knowing, it will remain through a dura-
tion beyond human measurement, and beyond human compre-
hension.
The ancients knew nothing of our present system of arithmeti-
cal notation; nothing of algebra, and, of course, nothing of the im-
portant application of algebra to geometry. They had not learned
the use of logarithms, and were ignorant of fluxions. They had.
200 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DANIEL WEBSTER.
not attained to any just method for the mensuration of the earth,
a matter of great moment to astronomy, navigation, and other
branches of useful knowledge. It is scarcely necessary to add,
that they were ignorant of the great results which have followed
the development of the principle of gravitation.
In the useful and practical arts, many inventions and contri-
vances, to the production of which the degree of ancient know-
ledge would appear to us to have been adequate, and which seem
quite obvious, are yet of late origin. The application of water,
for example, to turn a mill, is a thing not known to have been
accomplished at all in Greece, and is not supposed to have been
attempted at Rome till in or near the age of Augustus. The pro-
duction of the same effect by wind, is a still later invention. 1 1
dates only in the seventh century of our era. The propulsion o"
the saw by any other power than that of the arm, is treated as a
novelty in England so late as in the middle of the sixteenth cen-
tury. The Bishop of Ely, ambassador from the Queen of England
to the Pope, says he saw, " at Lyons, a saw-mill driven with an
upright wheel, and the water that makes it go is gathered into a
narrow trough, which delivereth the same water to the wheels.
This wheel hath a piece of timber put to the axletree end, like
the handle of a brock, (a hand organ,) and fastened to the end of
the saw, which being turned with the force of water, hoisteth up
the saw, that it continually eateth in, and the handle of the same
is kept in a rigall of wood from severing. Also the timber lieth,
as it were, upon a ladder, which is brought by little and little to
the saw by another vice." From this description of the primitive
power-saw, it would seem that it was probably fast only at one
end, and that the broch and rigall performed the part of the arm
in the common use of the hand-saw.
It must always have been a very considerable object for men
to possess, or obtain, the power of raising water otherwise than by
mere manual labour. Yet nothing like the common suction-pump
has been found among rude nations. It has arrived at its present
state only by slow and doubtful steps of improvement ; and,
indeed, in that present state, however obvious and unattractive, it
DANIEL WEBSTER.] PROGRESS OF THE MECHANICAL ARTS. 2OI
is something of an abstruse and refined invention. It was un-
known in China until Europeans visited the " Celestial Empire ;"
and is still unknown in other parts of Asia, beyond the pale of
European settlements, or the reach of European communication.
The Greeks and Romans are supposed to have been ignorant of
it, in the early times of their history; and it is usually said to have
come from Alexandria, where physical science was much culti-
vated by the Greek school, under the patronage of the Ptolemies.
These few and scattered historical notices of important inven-
tions have been introduced only for the purpose of suggesting that
there is much which is both curious and instructive in the history
of mechanics : and that many things, which to us, in our state of
knowledge, seem so obvious that we should think they would at
once force themselves on men's adoption, have, nevertheless, been
accomplished slowly, and by painful efforts.
But if the history of the progress of the mechanical arts be
interesting, still more so, doubtless, would be the exhibition of
their present state, and a full display of the extent to which they
are now carried. The slightest glance must convince us that
mechanical power and mechanical skill, as they are now exhibited
in Europe and America, mark an epoch in human history worthy
of all admiration. Machinery is made to perform what has for-
merly been the toil of human hands, to an extent that astonishes
the most sanguine, with a degree of power to which no number of
human arms is equal, and with such precision and exactness as
almost to suggest the notion of reason and intelligence in the
machines themselves. Every natural agent is put unrelentingly to
the task. The winds work, the waters work, the elasticity of metals
work j gravity is solicited into a thousand new forms of action ;
levers are multiplied upon levers ; wheels revolve on the peripheries
of other wheels. The saw and the plane are tortured into an ac-
commodation to new uses ; and, last of all, with inimitable power,
and "with whirlwind sound," comes the potent agency of steam. In
comparison with the past, what centuries of improvement has this
single agent comprised in the short compass of fifty years! Everywhere
practicable, everywhere efficient, it has an arm a thousand times
202 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOHN FOSTER.
stronger than that of Hercules, and to which human ingenuity is
capable of fitting a thousand times as many heads as belonged to
Briareus. Steam is found in triumphant operation on the seas ;
and under the influence of its strong propulsion, the gallant ship
"Against the wind, against the tide,
Still steadies with an upright keeL"
It is on the rivers, that the boatman may repose on his oars ; it
is in highways, and exerts itself along the courses of land con-
veyance ; it is at the bottom of mines, a thousand feet below the
earth's surface ; it is in the mill, arid in the workshops of the
trades. It rows, it pumps, it excavates, it carries, it draws, it lifts,
it hammers, it spins, it weaves, it prints. It seems to say to men,
at least to the class of artisans, "Leave off your manual labour,
give over your bodily toil ; bestow but your skill and reason to the
directing of my power, and I will bear the toil, — with no muscle
to grow weary, no nerve to relax, no breast to feel faintness."
What further improvements may still be made in the use of this
astonishing power it is impossible to know, and it were vain to
conjecture. What we do know is, that it has most essentially altered
the face of affairs, and that no visible limit yet appears beyond
which its progress is seen to be impossible. If its power were
now to be annihilated, if we were to miss it on the water and in
the mills, it would seem as if we were going back to rude ages.
34. — $ttmon 0f ® jrarate.
JOHN FOSTER.
QOHN FOSTER, born in 1770, was a native of Yorkshire. He was educated
for the Baptist ministry ; but subsequently devoted himself to literary occu-
pation, residing at Stapleton, near Bristol, where he died in 1843. His "Essays"
were first published in 1805 — a remarkable book, that will live as long as the
language. His other work is " Essay on the Evils of Popular Ignorance."]
I have frequently remarked to you in conversation the effect
of what has been called a ruling passion. When its object is
JOHN FOSTER.] DECISION OF CHARACTER. 203
noble, and an enlightened understanding directs its movements,
it appears to me a great felicity ; but whether its object be noble
or not, it infallibly creates, where it exists in great force, that
active ardent constancy, which I describe as a capital feature of
the decisive character. The subject of such a commanding pas-
sion wonders, if indeed he were at leisure to wonder, at the persons
who pretend to attach importance to an object which they make
none but the most languid efforts to secure. The utmost powers
of the man are constrained into the service of the favourite cause
by this passion, which sweeps away, as it advances, all the trivial
objections and little opposing motives, and seems almost to open
its way through impossibilities. This spirit comes on him in the
morning as soon as he recovers his consciousness, and commands
and impels him through the day with a power from which he
could not emancipate himself if he would. When the force of
habit is added, the determination becomes invincible, and seems
to assume rank with the great laws of nature, making it nearly as
certain that such a man will persist in his course as that in the
morning the sun will rise.
A persisting, untamable efficacy of soul gives a seductive and
pernicious dignity even to a character and a course which every
moral principle forbids us to approve. Often in the narrations of
history and fiction, an agent of the most dreadful designs compels
a sentiment of deep respect for the unconquerable mind displayed
in their execution. While we shudder at his activity, we say with
regret, mingled with an admiration which borders on partiality,
What a noble being this would have been, if goodness had been
nis destiny ! The partiality is evinced in the very selection of
terms, by which we show that we are tempted to refer his atrocity
rather to his destiny than to his choice. I wonder whether an
emotion like this has not been experienced by each reader of
"Paradise Lost," relative to the leader of the infernal spirits; a
proof, if such were the fact, that a very serious error has been
committed by the greatest poet. In some of the high examples
of ambition, we almost revere the force of mind which impelled
them forward through the longest series of action, superior to
204 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOHN FOSTER.
doubt or fluctuation, and disdainful of ease, of pleasures, of oppo-
sition, and of hazard. We bow to the ambitious spirit which
reached the true sublime, in the reply of Pompey to his friends,
who dissuaded him from venturing on a tempestuous sea, in order
to be at Rome on an important occasion : — " It is necessary for
me to go, it is not necessary for me to live."
Revenge has produced wonderful examples of this unremitting
constancy to a purpose. Zanga is a well-supported illustration.
And you may have read a real instance of a Spaniard, who,
being injured by another inhabitant of the same town, resolved to
destroy him : the other was apprised of this, and removed with the
utmost secrecy, as he thought, to another town at a considerable
distance, where, however, he had not been more than a day or two,
before he found that his enemy was arrived there. He removed
in the same manner to several parts of the kingdom, remote from
each other; but in every place quickly perceived that his deadly
pursuer was near him. At last he went to South America, where
he had enjoyed his security but a very short time, before his un-
relenting enemy came up with him and effected his purpose.
You may recollect the mention, in one of our conversations, of
a young man who wasted in two or three years a large patrimony
in profligate revels with a number of worthless associates who
called themselves his friends, and who, when his last means were
exhausted, treated him, of course, with neglect, or contempt. Re-
duced to absolute want, he one day went out of the house with an
intention to put an end to his life ; but wandering a while uncon-
sciously, he came to the brow of an eminence which overlooked
what were lately his estates. Here he sat down, and remained
fixed in thought a number of hours, at the end of which he sprang
from the ground with a vehement, exulting emotion. He had
formed his resolution, which was, that all these estates should be
his again : he had formed his plan, too, which he instantly began
to execute. He walked hastily forward, determined to seize the
very first opportunity, of however humble a kind, to gain any
money, though it were ever so despicable a trifle, and resolved ab-
solutely not to spend, if he could help it, a farthing of whatever
JOHN FOSTER.] DECISION OF CHARACTER. 205
he might obtain. The first thing that drew his attention was a
heap of coals shot out of carts on the pavement before a house.
He offered himself to shovel or wheel them into the place where
they were to be laid, and was employed. He received a few
pence for the labour; and then, in pursuance of the saving part of
his plan, requested some small gratuity of meat and drink, which
was given him. He then looked out for the next thing that might
chance to offer, and went, with indefatigable industry, through a
succession of servile employments, in different places, of longer
and shorter duration, still scrupulously avoiding, as far as possible,
the expense of a penny. He promptly seized every opportunity
which could advance his design, without regarding the meanness
of occupation or appearance. By this method he had gained,
after a considerable time, money enough to purchase, in order to
sell again, a few cattle, of which he had taken pains to understand
the value. He speedily but cautiously turned his first gains into
second advantages ; retained without a single deviation his extreme
parsimony; and thus advanced by degrees into larger transactions
and incipient wealth. I did not hear, or have forgotten, the con-
tinued course of his life; but the final result was, that he more than
recovered his lost possessions, and died an inveterate miser, worth
;£6o,ooo. I have always recollected this as a signal instance,
though in an unfortunate and ignoble direction, of decisive char-
acter, and of the extraordinary effect, which, according to general
laws, belongs to the strongest form of such a character.
But not less decision has been displayed by men of virtue. In
this distinction no man ever exceeded, for instance, or ever will
exceed, the late illustrious Howard.
The energy of his determination was so great, that if, instead of
being habitual, it had been shown only for a short time, on par-
ticular occasions, it would have appeared a vehement impetuosity;
but by being unintermitted, it had an equability of manner which
scarcely appeared to exceed the tone of a calm constancy, it was
so totally the reverse of anything like turbulence or agitation. It
was the calmness of an intensity kept uniform by the nature of
the human mind forbidding it to be more, and by the character
2o6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UOHN FOSTER.
of the individual forbidding it to be less. The habitual passion
of his mind was a measure of feeling almost equal to the temporary
extremes and paroxysms of common minds : as a great river, in
its customary state, is equal to a small or moderate one when
swollen to a torrent.
The moment of finishing his plans in deliberation, and com-
mencing them in action, was the same. I wonder what must have
been the amount of that bribe in emolument or pleasure, that
would have detained him a week inactive after their final adjust-
ment. The law which carries water down a declivity, was not
more unconquerable and invariable than the determination of his
feelings toward the main object. The importance of this object
held his faculties in a state of excitement which was too rigid to
be affected by lighter interests, and on which therefore the beauties
of nature and of art had no power. He had no leisure feeling
which he could spare to be diverted among the innumerable varie-
ties of the extensive scenes which he traversed; all his subordinate
feelings lost their separate existence and operation, by falling into
the grand one. There have not been wanting trivial minds to
mark this as a fault in his character. But the mere men of taste
ought to be silent respecting such a man as Howard; he is above
their sphere of judgment. The invisible spirits who fulfil their
commission of philanthropy among mortals do not care about
pictures, statues, and sumptuous buildings; and no more did he,
when the time in which he must have inspected and admired them
would have been taken from the work to which he had conse-
crated his life. The curiosity which he might feel was reduced to
wait till the hour should arrive when its gratification should be
presented by conscience, which kept a scrupulous charge of all
his time, as the most sacred duty of that hour. If he was still at
every hour, when it came, fated to feel the attractions of the fine
arts but the second claim, they might be sure of their revenge; for
no other man will ever visit Rome under such a despotic con-
sciousness of duty as to refuse himself time for surveying the mag-
nificence of its ruins. Such a sin against taste is very far beyond
the reach of common saintship to commit. It implied an incon-
JOHN FOSTER.] DECISION OF CHARACTER. 207
ceivable severity of conviction, that he had one thing to do, and
that he who would do some great thing in this short life must
apply himself to the work with such a concentration of his forces,
as, to idle spectators, who live only to amuse themselves, looks
like insanity.
His attention was so strongly and tenaciously fixed on his
object, that even at the greatest distance, as the Egyptian pyra-
mids to travellers, it appeared to him with a luminous distinctness
as if it had been nigh, and beguiled the toilsome length of labour
and enterprise by which he was to reach it It was so conspicuous
before him, that not a step deviated from the direction, and every
movement and every day was an approximation. As his method
referred everything he did and thought to the end, and as his
exertion did not relax for a moment, he made the trial, so seldom
made, what is the utmost effect which may be granted to the last
possible efforts of a human agent : and therefore what he did not
accomplish, he might conclude to be placed beyond the sphere of
mortal activity, and calmly leave to the immediate disposal of
Omnipotence.
Unless the eternal happiness of mankind be an insignificant
concern, and the passion to promote it an inglorious distinction,
I may cite George Whitefield as a noble instance of this attribute
of the decisive character, this intense necessity of action. The
great cause which was so languid a thing in the hands of many
of its advocates, assumed in his administrations an unmitigable
urgency.
Many of the Christian missionaries among the heathens, such
as Brainerd, Elliot, and Schwartz, have displayed memorable
examples of this dedication of their whole being to their office,
this eternal abjuration of all the quiescent feelings.
This would be the proper place for introducing (if I did not
hesitate to introduce in any connexion with merely human
instances) the example of Him who said, " I must be about my
Father's business." " My meat and drink is to do the will .of Him
that sent me, and to finish His work." " I have a baptism to be
baptized with, and how am I straitened till it be accomplished."
208
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[HOOD.
35.—
HOOD.
[THOMAS HOOD, bora in London, in 1798, was the son of a respectable
publisher, of the firm of Vernor, Hood, & Sharpe. He was brought up an
engraver; — he became a writer of " Whims and Oddities," — and he grew into
a poet of great and original power. The slight partition which divides humour
and pathos was remarkably exemplified in Hood. Misfortune and feeble health
made him doubly sensitive to the ills of his fellow-creatures. The sorrows
which he has delineated are not unreal things. He died in 1845, his great
merits having been previously recognised by Sir Robert Peel, who bestowed
on him a pension, to be continued to his wife. That wife soon followed him
to the grave. The pension has been continued to their children.]
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school :
There were some that ran, and some
that leapt
Like troutlets in a stream.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn..
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran —
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can :
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man !
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease ;
So he lean'd his head on his hands
and read
The book between his knees !
Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;
For the peace of his soul he read that
book
In the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome ;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp :
"O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp ! "
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took ;
Now up the mead, then down the
mead,
And past a shady nook :
And lo ! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book !
" My gentle lad, what is 't you read —
Romance or fairy fable ?
Or is it some historic page
Of kings and crowns unstable ? "
The young boy gave an upward
glance —
" It is the death of Abel."
The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain ;
HOOD.]
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
209
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again :
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain ;
And long since then of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves —
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves —
Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves ;
And how the sprites of injur'd men,
Shriek upward from the sod —
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God !
He told how murderers walk'd the
earth
Beneath the curse of Cain —
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain :
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain !
" And well," quoth he, "I know for
truth
Their pangs must be extreme —
Woe, woe, unutterable woe —
Who spill life's sacred stream !
For why? Methought last night I
wrought
A murder in a dream !
" One that had never done me wrong,
A feeble man and old ;
I led him to a lonely field —
The moon shone clear and cold :
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold !
"Two sudden blows with a ragged
stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,
And then the deed was done :
VOL. I.
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone !
" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill ;
And yet I fear'd him all the more
For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look
That murder could not kill !
" And lo ! the universal air
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame-
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame :
I took the dead man by the hand,
And call'd upon his name.
" Oh, God ! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay
The blood gush'd out amain,
For every clot a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain !
" My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice ;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the devil's price :
A dozen times I groan' d — the dead
Had never groan'd but twice;
" And now from forth the frowning
sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice — the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight! '
" I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream —
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme.
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream !
" Down went the corpse with a hol-
low plunge,
And vanish'd in the pool ;
O
210
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[Hooo.
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And wash'd my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young
That evening in the school !
" Oh, heaven, to think of their white
souls,
And mine so black and grim !
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn ;
Like a devil of the pit I seem'd
'Mid holy cherubim !
"And peace went with them one and
all,
And each calm pillow spread ;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round
With fingers bloody red !
" All night I lay in agony,
In anguish dark and deep ;
My fever' d eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep ;
For Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of hell to keep !
" All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
That rack'd me all the time —
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime.
" One stern, tyrannic thought, that
made
All other thoughts its slaves ;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave —
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave I
" Heavily I rose up — as soon
As light was in the sky —
And sought the black accursed pool
Wich a wild misgiving eye ;
And I saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry !
" Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing ;
But I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing :
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
" With breathless speed, like a soul
in chase,
I took him up and ran —
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began ;
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of
leaves,
I hid the murder'd man !
" And all that day I read in school
But my thought was other where !
As soon as the mid-day task was
done,
In secret I was there :
And a mighty wind had swept the
leaves,
And still the corse was bare !
" Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep;
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep ;
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep !
"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones—
Ay, though he 's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh —
The world shall see his bones !
" Oh, God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake !
Again, again, with a dizzy brain
The human life I take ;
And my red right hand grows raging
hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake. "
PASCAL.] CONTRARIE TIES OF HUMAN NA TURE. 211
" And still no peace for the restless That very night, while gentle sleep
clay The urchin's eyelids kiss'd,
Will wave or mould allow : Two stern-faced men set out from
The horrid thing pursues my soul — Lynn,
It stands before me now ! " Through the cold and heavy mist j
The fearful boy look'd up, and saw And Eugene Aram walk'd between
Huge drops upon his brow. With gyves upon his wrists.
36. — g;{p Stettjgs ®0ntrarbties irisorfrerable m
unmit
PASCAL.
[BLAISE PASCAL was characterised by Bayle as "one of the sublimest
spirits in the world." He was born in 1623 ; he died in 1662. His genius led
him to the strictest inquiries of human reason ; his piety compelled him to the
most complete submission of his reasoning faculty to the truths of revelation.
Up to his twenty-fifth year he devoted himself to the pursuits of science ;
thenceforward, to the time of his early death, his mind was dedicated to
religious contemplation. His " Pensees" furnish a monument of the elevation
and purity of his devotional feeling; his "Lettres a un Provincial," in which
he assailed the morality of the Jesuits, with a power of logic and of wit which
has never been surpassed, show how completely his religion could be sepa-
rated from the enthusiasm of his temperament, and the ascetic practices of his
life. It has been said of him that he knew exactly how to distinguish between
the rights of faith and of reason. The passage which we select from his
"Pensees" is thus noticed by Dr Arnold: — "The necessity of faith, arising
from the absurdity of scepticism on the one hand, and of dogmatism on the
other, is shown with great power and eloquence in the first article of the second
part of Pascal's 'Pensees,' a book of which there is an English translation
by no means difficult to meet with."]
Nothing can be more astonishing in the nature of man than the
contrarieties which we there observe with regard to all things. He
is made for the knowledge of truth: this is what he most ardently
desires, and most eagerly pursues; yet when he endeavours to lay
hold on it, he is so dazzled and confounded as never to be secure
of actual possession. Hence the two sects of the Pyrrhonians
and the dogmatists took their rise; of which the one would utterly
deprive men of all truth, the other would infallibly insure their
inquiries after it; but each with reasons so improbable, as only to
212 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PASCAL.
increase our confusion and perplexity, while we are guided by no
other lights than those which we find in our own bosom.
The principal arguments of the Tyrrhenians, or sceptics, are as
follow: — If we accept faith and revelation, we can have no other
certainty to the truth of principles than that we naturally feel and
perceive them within ourselves. But now this inward perception
is no convictive evidence of their truth ; because, since without
faith we have no assurance whether we were made by a good God,
or by some evil demon; nay, whether we have not existed from
eternity, or been the offspring of chance. It may be doubted
whether these principles within us are true or false, or uncertain in
correspondence to our original. Indeed, it is by faith alone that
we can distinguish whether we are asleep or awake ; — because in
our sleep we as strongly fancy ourselves to be waking as when
we really are . so : we imagine that we see space, figure, and
motion : we perceive the time pass away, we measure it as it runs.
In fine, we act, to all intents, as in our most wakeful hours.
Since then, by our own confession, one-half of our life is spent in
sleep, during which, whatever we may suppose, we have really no
idea of truth, all that then passes within us being mere illusion,
who can tell but that the other moiety of our life, in which we
fancy ourselves to be awake, is no more than a second sleep,
little differing from the former; and that we only rouse ourselves
from our sleep by day when we enter into that at night; as it is
usual with us to dream that we dream, by heaping one fantastic
image upon another?
I wave the whole declamations of the sceptics, against the im-
pressions of custom, education, manners, and climates, and the
like prejudices; which they observe to govern the greatest part of
mankind, who are wont to reason on no other than these false
foundations.
The main forte of the dogmatists is this, that would we but
speak honestly and sincerely, there is no man who can doubt of
natural principles. We are capable of truth, say they, not only
by reasoning, but by perception, and by a bright and lively act of
immediate intelligence. It is by this latter way that we arrive at
PASCAL.] CONTRARIETIES OF HUMAN NATURE, 213
the knowledge of first principles, which the forces of reason would
attack in vain, having nothing to do with them. The sceptics,
who labour to bring all things to their own standard, are under a
continual disappointment. We may be very well assured of our
being awake, though very unable to demonstrate it by reason.
This inability shows indeed the feebleness of our rational powers,
but not the general incertitude of our knowledge. We apprehend,
with no less confidence, that there are such things in the world as
space, time, motion, number, and matter, than the most regular
and demonstrative conclusions. Nay, it is upon this certainty ot
perception and consciousness that reason ought to fix itself, and
to found the whole method of its process. I perceive that there
are three dimensions in space — viz., length, breadth, and thickness
— and that number is infinite : hence my reason demonstrates that
there are no two square numbers assignable, one of which shall
exactly double the other. We apprehend principles, and we con-
clude propositions ; and both with the like assurance, though by
different ways. Nor is it less ridiculous for reason to demand of
these perceptive and intellective faculties a proof of their maxims
before it consents to them, than it would be for the said faculties
to demand of reason a clear perception and intuition of all the
problems it demonstrates. This defect, therefore, may serve to
the humbling of reason, which pretends to be the judge of all
things, but not to invalidate our assurance, as if reason were alone
able to inform our judgment. On the contrary, it were to be
wished that we had less occasion for rational deductions, and that
we knew all things by instinct and immediate view. But nature
has denied us this favour, and allows us but few notices of so easy
a kind, leaving us to work out the rest by laborious consequences,
and a continued series of argument.
We see here a universal war proclaimed against mankind.
We must of necessity list ourselves on one side or on the other ;
for he that pretends to stand neuter is most effectually of the scep-
tical party : this neutrality constitutes the very essence of scepti-
cism ; and he that is not against sceptics, must be in a superlative
manner for them. What shall a man do under these circum-
214 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PASCAL.
stances 1 Shall he question everything 1 Shall he doubt whether
he is awake — whether another pinches him, or burns him 1 Shall
he doubt whether he doubts 1 Shall he doubt whether he exists ?
It seems impossible to come to this ; and therefore, I believe, there
never was a finished sceptic, a Tyrrhenian in perfection. There
is a secret force in nature which sustains the weakness of reason,
and hinders it from losing itself in such a degree of extravagance.
Well, but shall a man join himself to the opposite faction1? Shall
he boast that he is in sure possession of truth, when, if we press
him never so little, he can produce no title, and must be obliged
to quit his hold ?
Who shall extricate us from this dilemma ? The sceptics we
see are confounded by nature, and the dogmatists by reason. To
what a distracting misery will that man, therefore, be reduced,
who shall seek the knowledge of his own condition by the bare
light and guidance of his own powers ! it being alike impossible
for him to avoid both these sects, for he cannot repose himself on
either.
Such is the portrait of man with regard to truth. Let us now
behold him in respect of felicity, which he prosecutes with so
much warmth through his whole course of action ; for all desire
to be happy : this general rule is without exception. Whatever
variety there may be in the means employed, there is but one end
universally pursued. The reason why one man embraceth the
hazard of war, and why another declines it, is but the same desire,
attended in each with different views. This is the sole motive to
every action of every person; and even of such as most unnatu-
rally become their own executioners.
And yet, after the course of so many ages, no person without
faith has ever arrived at this point, towards which all continually
tend. The whole world is busy in complaining : princes and sub-
jects, nobles and commons, old and young, the strong and the
feeble, the learned and the ignorant, the healthy and the diseased,
of all countries, all times, all ages, and all conditions.
So long, so constant, so regular, and uniform a proof ought
fully to convince us of our utter inability to acquire happiness by
PASCAL.] CONTRARIETIES OF HUMAN NA TURE. 215
our own efforts. But example will not serve for our instruction in
this case; because there being no resemblance so exact as not to
admit some nicer difference, we are hence disposed to think that
our expectation is not so liable to be deceived on one occasion as
on another. Thus the present never satisfying us, the future de-
coys and allures us on, till, from one misfortune to another, it
leads us into death, the sum and consummation of eternal misery.
This is next to a miracle, that there should not be any one thing
in nature which has not been some time fixed as the last end and
happiness of man; neither stars, nor elements^ nor plants, nor
animals, nor insects, nor diseases, nor war, nor vice, nor sin.
Man being fallen from his natural estate, there is no object so
extravagant as not to be capable of attracting his desire. Ever
since he lost his real good, everything cheats him with the appear-
ance of it; even his own destruction, though contrary as this
seems both to reason and nature.
Some have sought after felicity in honour and authority, others
in curiosity and knowledge, and a third tribe in the pleasures and
enjoyments of sense. These three leading pursuits have consti-
tuted as many factions; and those whom we compliment with the
name of philosophers, have really done nothing else but resigned
themselves up to one of the three. Such amongst them as made
the nearest approaches to truth and happiness, well considered
that it was necessary the universal good which all desire, and in
which each man ought to be allowed his portion, should not con-
sist in any of the private blessings of this world, which can be
properly enjoyed but by one alone, and which, if divided, do more
grieve and afflict each possessor, for want of the part which he has
not, than they oblige and gratify him with the part which he has.
They rightly apprehend that the true good ought to be such as all
may possess at once, without diminution, and without contention;
and such as no man can be deprived of against his will. They
apprehend this; but they were unable to attain and execute it;
and instead of a solid, substantial happiness, took up at last with
the empty shadow of visionary excellence.
Our instinct suggests to us that we ought to seek our happiness
2l6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. RASCAL.
within ourselves. Our passions hurry us abroad, even when there
are no objects to. engage and incite them. External objects are
themselves our tempters, and charm and attract us, while we think
not of them. Therefore, the wisest philosophers might weary
themselves with crying, " Keep within yourselves, and your feli-
city is in your own gift and power." The generality never gave
them credit, and those who were so easy as to believe them, be-
came only the more unsatisfied and the more ridiculous. For is
there anything so vain as the happiness of the Stoics, or so ground-
less as the reasons on which they build it 1
They conclude, that what has been done once may be done
always ; and that, because the desire of glory has spurred on its
voteries to great and worthy actions, all others may use it with the
same success. But these are the motions of fever and frenzy,
which sound health and judgment can never imitate.
The civil war between reason and passion has occasioned two
opposite projects for the restoring of peace to mankind ; the one,
of those who were for renouncing their passions, and becoming
gods ; the other, of those who were for renouncing their reason,
and becoming beasts. But neither the one nor the other could
take effect. Reason ever continues to accuse the baseness and
injustice of the passions, and to disturb the repose of those who
abandon themselves to their dominion ; and, on the contrary, the
passions remain lively and vigorous in the hearts of those who
talk the most of their extirpation.
This is the just account of human nature, and human strength,
in respect of truth and happiness. We have an idea of truth not
to be effaced by all the wiles of the sceptic ; we have an incapacity
of argument not to be rectified by all the power of the dogmatist.
We wish for truth, and find nothing in ourselves but uncertainty.
We seek after happiness, and are presented with nothing but
misery. Our double aim is, in effect, a double torture ; while we
are alike unable to compass either, and to relinquish either. These
desires seem to have been left in us, partly as a punishment of our
fall, and partly as an indication and remembrance whence we are
fallen.
PASCAL.] CONTRARIETIES OF HUMAN NA TURE. 2IJ
If man was not made for God, why is God alone sufficient for
human happiness ? If man was made for God, why is the human
will, in all things, repugnant to the divine ?
Man is at a loss where to fix himself, and to recover his proper
station in the world. He is unquestionably out of his way ; he
feels within himself the small remains of his once happy state,
which he is now unable to retrieve. And yet this is what he daily
courts and follows after, always with solicitude, and never with
success ; encompassed with darkness which he can neither escape
nor penetrate.
Hence arose the contest amongst the philosophers ; some of
whom endeavoured to raise and exalt man by displaying his great-
ness; others to depress and debase him by representing his
misery. And what seems more strange, is, that each party bor-
rowed from the other the ground of their own opinion. For the
misery of man may be inferred from his greatness, as his great-
ness is deducible from his misery. Thus the one sect, with more
evidence, demonstrated his misery in that they derived it from his
greatness; and the other more strongly concluded his greatness,
because they founded it on his misery. Whatever was offered to
establish his greatness, on one side, served only to evince his
misery in behalf of the other ; it being more miserable to have
fallen from the greater height. And the same proportion holds
vice versa. So that in this endless circle of dispute, each helped
to advance his adversary's cause ; for it is certain, that the more
degrees of light men enjoy, the more degrees they are able to dis-
cern of misery and of greatness. In a word, man knows himself
to be miserable ; he is therefore exceedingly miserable, because
he knows that he is so ; but he likewise appears to be eminently
great, from this very act of knowing himself to be miserable.
What a chimera, then, is man ! What a surprising novelty !
What a confused chaos ! What a subject of contradiction ! A
professed judge of all things, and yet a feeble worm of the earth ;
the great depository and guardian of truth, and yet a mere medley
of uncertainty ; the glory and the scandal of the universe ! If he
is too aspiring and lofty, we can lower and humble him ; if too
2l8
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[EVELYW.
mean and little, we can exalt him. To conclude, we can bait
him with repugnances and contradictions, until, at length, he con-
siders himself to be a monster even beyond conception.
37. — ^mmnt 0f % feat fin 0f
LONDON DURING THE FIRE.
EVELYN.
[JOHN EVELYN, of Wotton, Surrey, was a younger son of an ancient family.
During a long life in eventful times, he maintained a character for independence
and honesty, without being a violent partisan ; and in a profligate age he dis-
played the decorous virtues of an English gentleman. His "Memoirs" were
found about thirty-five years ago, in a mutilated state, in the old mansion in
which he lived and died — Wotton, near Dorking; and they offer some of the
most curious pictures we possess of the events and manners of the i7th century.
We subjoin his narrative of the Great Fire of London, in 1666. Mr Evelyn
died in 1706, in his 86th year.]
1666. 2d Sept. This fatal night, about ten, began that de-
plorable fire near Fish Street, in London.
3. The fire continuing, after dinner I took coach with my wife
and son, and went to the Bank-side in Southwark, where we be-
held that dismal spectacle, the whole city in dreadful flames near
the water-side; all the houses from the bridge, all Thames Street,
EVELYN. 1 ACCOUNT OF THE GREA T FIRE OF LONDON. 2 1 9
and upwards towards Cheapside, down to the Three Cranes, were
now consumed.
The fire having continued all this night, (if I may call that night
which was as light as day for ten miles round about, after a dread-
ful manner,) when conspiring with a fierce eastern wind in a very
dry season; I went on foot to the same place, and saw the whole
south part of the city burning from Cheapside to the Thames, and
all along Cornhill, (for it kindled back against the wind as well as
forward,) Tower Street, Fenchurch Street, Gracechurch Street, and
so along to Bainard's Castle, and was now taking hold of St Paul's
Church, to which the scaffolds contributed exceedingly. The con-
flagration was so universal, and the people so astonished, that
from the beginning, I know not by what despondency or fate, they
hardly stirred to quench it; so that there was nothing heard or
seen but crying out and lamentation, running about like distracted
creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods; such
a strange consternation there was upon them, so as it burned both
in breadth and length, the churches, public halls, exchange, hospi-
tals, monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a prodigious man-
ner from house to house, and street to street, at great distances
one from the other; for the heat, with a long set of fair and warm
weather, had even ignited the air and prepared the materials to
conceive the fire, which devoured after an incredible manner,
houses, furniture, and everything. Here we saw the Thames
covered with goods floating, all the barges and boats laden with
what some had time and courage to save, as, on the other, the
carts, &c., carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were
strewed with movables of all sorts, and tents erecting to shelter
both people and what goods they could get away. Oh, the mise-
rable and calamitous spectacle ! such as haply the world had not
seen the like since the foundation of it, nor be outdone till the
universal conflagration. All the sky was of a fiery aspect, like the
top of a burning oven, the light seen above forty miles round about
for many nights. God grant my eyes may never behold the like,
now seeing above 10,000 houses all in one flame : the noise, and
cracking, and thunder of the impetuous flames, the shrieking of
220 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [EVELYN.
women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses,
and churches was like an hideous storm, and the air all about so hot
and inflamed, that at last one was not able to approach it; so that
they were forced to stand still and let the flames burn on, which they
did for near two miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds
of smoke were dismal, and reached, upon computation, near fifty
miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoon burning, a resem-
blance of Sodom, or the last day. London was, but is no more !
4. The burning still rages, and it has now gotten as far as the
Inner Temple, all Fleet Street, the Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill,
Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paul's Chain, Watling Street, now flam-
ing, and most of it reduced to ashes ; the stones of Paul's flew
like granados, the melting lead running down the streets in a
stream, and the very pavements glowing with fiery redness, so as
no horse nor man was able to tread on them, and the demolition
had stopped all the passages, so that no help could be applied.
The eastern wind still more impetuously drove the flames forward.
Nothing but the almighty power of God was able to stop them,
for vain was the help of man.
5. It crossed towards Whitehall; oh, the confusion there was
then at that court ! It pleased his majesty to command me among
the rest to look after the quenching of Fetter Lane end, to pre-
serve, if possible, that part of Holborn, whilst the rest of the
gentlemen took their several posts, (for now they began to bestir
themselves, and not till now, who hitherto had stood as men in-
toxicated, with their hands across,) and began to consider that
nothing was likely to put a stop, but the blowing up of so many
houses as might make a wider gap than any had yet been made
by the ordinary method of pulling them down with engines ; this
some stout seamen proposed early enough to have saved nearly
the whole city, but this some tenacious and avaricious men, alder-
men, &c., would not permit, because their houses must have been of
the first. It was therefore now commanded to be practised, and my
concern being particularly for the hospital of St Bartholomew, near
Smithfield, where I had many wounded and sick men, made me
the more diligent to promote it, nor was my care for the Savoy
EVELYN.] ACCOUNT OF THE GREA T FIRE OF LONDON. 221
less. It now pleased God, by abating the wind, and by the indus-
try of the people, infusing a new spirit into them, that the fury
of it began sensibly to abate about noon, so as it came no
farther than the Temple westward, nor than the entrance of Smith-
field north; but continued all this day and night so impetuous
towards Cripplegate and the Tower, as made us all despair. It
also broke out again in the Temple, but the courage of the multi-
tude persisting, and many houses being blown up, such gaps and
desolations were soon made, as with the former three days' con-
sumption, the back fire did not so vehemently urge upon the rest
as formerly. There was yet no standing near the burning and
glowing ruins by near a furlong's space.
The coal and wood wharfs, and magazines of oil, rosin, &c.,
did infinite mischief, so as the invective which a little before
I had dedicated to his majesty and published, giving warning
what might probably be the issue of suffering those shops to be in
the city, was looked on as a prophecy.
The poor inhabitants were dispersed about St George's Fields
and Moorfields, as far as Highgate, and several miles in circle,
some under tents, some under miserable huts and hovels, many
without a rag, or any necessary utensils, bed, or board ; who, from
delicateness, riches, and easy accommodations in stately and well-
furnished houses, were now reduced to extremest misery and po-
verty.
In this calamitous condition I returned with a sad heart to my
house, blessing and adoring the mercy of God to me and mine,
who in the midst of all this ruin was like Lot, in my little Zoar,
safe and sound.
7. I went this morning on foot from Whitehall as far as London
Bridge, through the late Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, by St Paul's,
Cheapside, Exchange, Bishopgate, Aldersgate, and out to Moor-
fields, thence through Cornhill, &c., with extraordinay difficulty,
clambering over heaps of yet smoking rubbish, and frequently mis-
taking where I was. The ground under my feet was so hot, that
it even burnt the soles of my shoes. In the meantime his majesty
got to the Tower by water, to demolish the houses about the graff,
222 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [EVELYN.
which being built entirely about it, had they taken fire, and at-
tacked the White Tower where the magazine of powder lay, would
undoubtedly not only have beaten down and destroyed all the
bridge, but sunk and torn the vessels in the river, and rendered
the demolition beyond all expression for several miles about the
country.
At my return I was infinitely concerned to find that goodly
church, St Paul's, now a sad ruin, and that beautiful portico (for
structure comparable to any in Europe, as not long before repaired
by the king) now rent in pieces, flakes of vast stone split asunder,
and nothing remaining entire but the inscription in the architrave,
showing by whom it was built, which had not one letter of it defaced.
It was astonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a
manner calcined, so that all the ornaments, columns, friezes, and
projectures of massy Portland stone flew off, even to the very roof,
where a sheet of lead covering a great space was totally melted ;
the ruins of the vaulted roof falling broke into St Faith's, which
being filled with the magazines of books belonging to the sta-
tioners, and carried thither for safety, they were all consumed,
burning for a week following. It is also observable that the lead
over the altar at the east end was untouched, and among the
divers monuments, the body of one bishop remained entire. Thus
lay in ashes that most venerable church, one of the most ancient
pieces of early piety in the Christian world, besides near one
hundred more. The lead, ironwork, bells, plate, &c., melted ; the
exquisitely wrought Mercer's Chapel, the sumptuous Exchange,
the august fabric of Christ Church, all the rest of the Companies'
Halls, sumptuous buildings, arches, all in dust; the fountains dried
up and ruined, whilst the very waters remained boiling ; the vor-
agoes of subterranean cellars, wells, and dungeons, formerly ware-
houses, still burning in stench and dark clouds of smoke, so that
in five or six miles traversing about, I did not see one load oi
timber unconsumed,nor many stones but what were calcined white
as snow. The people who now walked about the ruins appeared
like men in a dismal desert, or rather in some great city laid
waste by a cruel enemy: to which was added the stench that came
EVELYN.] ACCOUNT OF THE GREA T FIRE OF LONDON. 223
from some poor creatures' bodies, .beds, &c. Sir Thomas Gresham's
statue, though fallen from its niche in the Royal Exchange, re-
mained entire, when all those of the kings since the Conquest were
broken to pieces ; also the standard in Cornhill, and Queen Eliza-
beth's effigies, with some arms on Ludgate, continued with but little
detriment, whilst the vast iron chains of the city streets, hinges, bars,
and gates of prisons, were many of them melted and reduced to
cinders by the vehement heat. I was not able to pass through
any of the narrow streets, but kept the widest, the ground
and air, smoke and fiery vapour continued so intense, that my
hair was almost singed, and my feet insufferably surheated. The
by-lanes and narrower streets were quite filled up with rubbish,
nor could one have known where he was, but by the ruins of some
church or hall, that had some remarkable tower or pinnacle re-
maining. I then went towards Islington and Highgate, where one
might have seen 200,000 people of all ranks and degrees, dispersed
and lying along by their heaps of what they could save from the
fire, deploring their loss, and though ready to perish for hunger
and destitution, yet not asking one penny for relief, which to me
appeared a stranger sight than any I had yet beheld. His majesty
and council indeed took all imaginable care for their relief, by
proclamation for the country to come in and refresh them with
provisions. In the midst of all this calamity and confusion, there
was, I know not how, an alarm begun that the French and
Dutch, with whom we are now in hostility, were not only landed,
but even entering the city. There was in truth some days before
great suspicion of these two nations joining ; and now, that they
had been the occasion of firing the town. This report did so
terrify, that on a sudden there was such an uproar and tumult,
that they ran from their goods, and taking what weapons they
could come at, they could not be stopped from falling on some of
those nations whom they casually met, without sense or reason.
The clamour and peril grew so excessive, that it made the whole
court amazed, and they did with infinite pains and great difficulty
reduce and appease the people, sending troops of soldiers and
guards to cause them to retire into the fields again, where they
224 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PRAED.
were watched all this night. I left them pretty quiet, and came
home sufficiently weary and broken. Their spirits thus a little
calmed, and the affright abated, they now began to repair into the
suburbs about the city, where such as had friends or opportunity
got shelter for the present, to which his majesty's proclamation
also invited them.
38.— 83« Kdr Jistorman.
PRAED.
[WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED was the son of Mr Sergeant Praed. In
1820, while at Eton College, he prepared and brought out, with the aid of
other young men, a periodical work, entitled "The Etonian," which went
through four editions. He was, subsequently, while at Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, one of the principal contributors to "Knight's Quarterly Magazine."
Mr Praed's university career was one of almost unequalled brilliancy. In 1831,
having previously been called to the bar, he was returned to Parliament for
a Cornish borough. His health was always somewhat feeble ; and the pro-
mises of his youth were closed by his early death in 1839. Several editions of
Mr Praed's poems had been published in the United States, which were a very
imperfect approach to a complete collection of his brilliant effusions. In 1864,
however, a very complete series of his poetical works appeared in two volumes,
accompanied with a memoir by his friend the Rev. Derwent Coleridge.]
The Abbot arose, and closed his book, If he look'd to the heaven, 'twas not
And donn'd his sandal shoon, to invoke
And wander'd forth alone to look The Spirit that dwelleth there ;
Upon the summer moon : If he open'd his lips, the words they
A starlight sky was o'er his head, spoke
A quiet breeze around ; Had never the tone of prayer.
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance A pious priest might the Abbot seem,
shed, He had sway'd the crosier well ;
And the waves a soothing But what was the theme of the Abbot's
sound : dream
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for The Abbot were loath to tell.
aught
But love and calm delight ; Companionless, for a mile or more,
Yet the holy man had a cloud of He traced the windings of the shore.
thought Oh, beauteous is that river still,
On his wrinkled brow that night. As it winds by many a sloping hill,
He gazed on the river that gurgled And many a dim o'er-arching grove,
by, And many a flat and sunny cove,
But he thought not of the reeds ; And terraced lawns, whose bright
He clasp'd his gilded rosary, arcades
But he did not tell the beads : The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
PRAKD.]
THE RED FISHERMAN.
225
And rocks whose very crags seem
bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers.
But the Abbot was thinking of
scenery,
About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in
wrath
Grew dark above his head ;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread ;
And nearer he came, and still more
- near
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless ;
From the river stream it spread
away
The space of half a rood ;
The surface had the hue of clay,
And the scent of human blood ;
The trees and the herbs that round it
grew
Were venomous and foul ;
And the birds that through the
bushes flew
Were the vulture and the owl ;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a company pump'd ;
And the perch that was netted and
laid on the bank,
Grew rotten while it jump'd :
And bold was he who thither came
At midnight, man or boy ;
For the place was cursed with an
evil name,
And that name was " The Devil's
Decoy ! "
The Abbot was weary as Abbot
could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump
of a tree :
VOL. I.
When suddenly rose a dismal tone —
Was it a song, or was it a moan ?
" Oh, ho ! Oh, ho 1
Above, — below ! —
Lightly and brightly they glide and
go!
The hungry and keen to the top are
leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are
sleeping ;
Fishing is fine when the pool is
muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are
ruddy ! "
In a monstrous fright, by the murky
light,
He look'd to the left, and he look'd
to the right.
And what was the vision close before
him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er
him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run :
The startled Priest struck both his
thighs,
And the Abbey clock struck one !
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sate on a three -legg'd stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod.
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he
bore;
His arms and his legs were long and
bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting
wreck.
It might be time, or it might be
trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly
double;
226
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[PRABD.
Sunk in their deep and hollow
sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve
rockets ;
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny
skin
Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashion'd and form'd long
ages ago :
And the hands that work'd his foreign
vest,
Long ages ago had gone to their rest :
You would have sworn, as you look'd
on them,
He had fish'd in the flood with Ham
and Shem!
There was turning of keys, and creak-
ing of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron
box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly —
It seem'd not such to the Abbot's eye :
Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a
diadem.
It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without ;
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a
spin,
And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in !
From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth;
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel ;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echo'd from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony !
Cold, by this, was the midnight air;
But the Abbot's blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping knight lie
there
With a gash beneath his dotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal church man strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster :
For he who writhed in mortal pain,
Was camp'd that night on Bosworth
plain, —
The cruel Duke of Glo'ster !
There was turning of keys, and creak-
ing of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron
box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent Abbot knew full well
The swelling form and the steaming
smell ;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guess'd the very
wood
Where the notfe hart had stood at
bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee,
Of a revelling company ;
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork :
But where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman
sate;
And the Priest was ready to vomit,
When he haul'd out a gentleman, fine
and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew,'-' the Fisherman said,
"With cinnamon and sherry!"
And the Abbot turn'd away his head,
For his brother was lying before him
dead,
The Mayor of St Edmund's Bury !
PRAKD.]
THE RED FISHERMAN.
227
There was turning of keys, and creak-
ing of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron
box.
It was a bundle of beautiful things,
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's
wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of
pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose
sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours roll'd,
That the Abbot fell on his face, and
fainted,
And deem'd his spirit was half-way
sainted.
Sounds seem'd dropping from the
skies,
Stifled whispers, smother'd sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales :
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words :
" Smile, lady, smile! — I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white,
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile! — I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, lady, smile! — for who would
win
A loveless throne through guilt and
sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still?"
One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and cold
as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.
" Ah, ha! " said the Fisher, in merry
guise,
" Her gallant was hook'd before ;"
And the Abbot heaved some piteous
sighs,
For oft he had bless'd those deep blue
eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore !
There was turning of keys, and creak-
ing of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron
box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside ;
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was press'd from the Bur-
gundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and
nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre!
From top to toe the Abbot shook
As the Fisherman arm'd his golden
hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream, or waken'd
thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's ven-
geance raises,
When the lips are crack'd, and the
jaws are dry,
With the thirst which only in death
shall die:
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown,
As the swaling wherry settles down,
228
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[ADDISOK.
When peril has numb'd the sense and
will,
Though the hand and the foot may
struggle still :
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance :
Fix'd as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no
prayer;
But he sign'd, — he knew not why or
how, —
The sign of the cross on his clammy
brow.
There was turning of keys, and creak-
ing of locks,
As he stalk'd away with his iron box.
"Oh ho! Oh ho!
The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to
the shrine;
He hath gnaw'd in twain my choicest
line;
Let him swim to the north, let him
swim to the south, —
The Abbot will carry my hook in his
mouth."
The Abbot had preach'd for many
years,
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House ot
Peers
Against Emancipation :
His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs ;
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the king himself three-quarters :
But ever, from that hour, 'tis said,
He stammer'd and he stutter'd
As if an axe went through his head,
With every word he utter' d.
He stutter'd o'er blessing, he stutter'd
o'er ban,
He stutter'd, drunk or dry,
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!
39.— Sir
— II.
The H3th number of the "Spectator" describes Sir Roger de Coverley
falling in love with a beautiful widow. The paper is by Steele; and to a
reader of the present day it may appear somewhat trite and mawkish. The
good old knight looks back upon his unrequited youthful affection with a half-
ludicrous solemnity. His mistress was a learned lady, who only gave him the
encouragement of declaring that " Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and
most humane of all the brutes in the country." It is scarcely necessary to
follow the disconsolate bachelor's relation of his disappointment. The follow-
ing description, however, of the sheriff riding in state to the assizes will serve,
with a little variation of costume, for a picture of the same scene in our own
day : for who amongst our country readers has not heard the barbarous dis-
sonance of the sheriffs trumpets, and smiled at the awkward pomp of his
mighty javelin-men ?
" ' I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved
to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have
ADDISON.] SIX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 22$
inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hos-
pitality and good neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame; and in
country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my
twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county;
and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage indulged the
pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own person)
in taking that public occasion of showing my figure and behaviour to
advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what appearance
I made, who am pretty tall, ride well, and was very well dressed,
at the head of a whole county, with music before me, a feather in
my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you I was not a
little pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the
balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were
held. But, when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow's
habit sat in the court to hear the event of a cause concerning her
dower. This commanding creature (who was born for the destruc-
tion of all who beheld her) put on such a resignation in her coun-
tenance, and bore the whispers of all around the court with such
a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from
one eye to another, until she was perfectly confused by meeting
something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a
murrain to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner
met it but I bowed like a great surprised booby; and knowing her
cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf
as I was, " Make way for the defendant's witnesses." This sudden
partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was
become a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause
was upon trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a.
deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little
billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty con-
fusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much
company, that not only I; but the whole court, was prejudiced in
her favour; and all that the next heir to her hit, band had to urge
was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her
counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one
besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage/"
230 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BESTi AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
In the iiSth and n6th numbers of the "Spectator," Sir. Roger figures as
the lover of country sports — obsolete indeed, to a certain extent, and not such
as a fast man of our own day would relish : —
" After what has been said, I need not inform my readers that
Sir Roger, with whose character I hope they are at present pretty
well acquainted, has in his youth gone through the whole course
of those rural diversions which the country abounds in; and which
seem to be extremely well suited to that laborious industry a man
may observe here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities.
I have before hinted at some of my friend's exploits : he has in
his youthful days taken forty coveys of partridges in a season; and
tired many a salmon with a line consisting but of a single hair.
The constant thanks and good wishes of the neighbourhood always
attended him on account of his remarkable enmity towards foxes;
having destroyed more of those vermin in one year than it was
thought the whole country could have produced. Indeed the
knight does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends,
that, in order to establish his reputation this way, he has secretly
sent for great numbers of them out of other counties, which he
used to turn loose about the country by night, that he might the
better signalise himself in their destruction the next day. His
hunting-horses were the finest and best managed in all these parts.
His tenants are still full of the praises of a gray stone-horse that
unhappily staked himself several years since, and was buried with
great solemnity in the orchard.
" Sir Roger being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep
himself in action, has disposed of his beagles, and got a pack of
stop-hounds. What these want in speed, he endeavours to make
amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of
their notes, which are suited in such a manner to each other, that
the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is so nice in
this particular, that a gentleman having made him a present of a
very fine hound the other day, the knight returned it by the ser-
vant with a great many expressions of civility; but desired him to
tell his master that the dog he had sent was indeed a most excel-
lent bass, but at present he only wanted a counter-tenor. Could
ADDISON.] SIX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 231
I believe my friend had ever read Shakspere, I should certainly
conclude he had taken the hint from Theseus in the ' Midsummer
Night's Dream:' —
* My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded ; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew.
Crook-kneed and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls,
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouths like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn.'
"Sir Roger is so keen at this sport that he has been out almost
every day since I came down; and upon the chaplain offering to
lend me his easy pad, I was prevailed- on yesterday morning to
make one of the company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid
along, to observe the general benevolence of all the neighbour-
hood towards my friend. The farmers' sons thought themselves
happy if they could open a gate for the good old knight as he
passed by; which he generally requited with a nod or a smile, and
a kind inquiry after their fathers or uncles.
" After we had rid about a mile from home, we came upon a
large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat. They had done
so for some time, when, as I was a little distance from the rest of
the company, I saw a hare pop out from a small furzebrake almost
under my horse's feet. I marked the way she took, which I en-
deavoured to make the company sensible of by extending my arm,
but to no purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that none of my ex-
traordinary motions are insignificant, rode up to me and asked me
if puss was gone that way. Upon my answering yes, he imme-
diately called in the dogs, and put them upon the scent. As they
were going on, I heard one of the country fellows muttering to his
companion, * that 'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport,
for want of the silent gentleman's crying, Stole away.'
" This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me withdraw
to a rising ground, from whence I could have the pleasure of the
whole chase, without the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds.
The hare immediately threw them above a mile behind her ; but
232
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
I was pleased to find that, instead of running straight fowards, or,
in hunter's language, 'flying the country,' as I was afraid she
might have done, she wheeled about, and described a sort of
circle round the hill where I had taken my station, in such a
manner as gave me a very distinct view of the sport. I could see
her first pass by, and the dogs some time afterwards unravelling
the whole track she had made, and following her through all her
doubles. I was at the time delighted in observing that deference
which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound, accord-
ing to the character he had acquired among them. If they were
at fault, and an old hound of reputation opened but once, he was
immediately followed by the whole cry ; while a raw dog, or one
who was a noted liar, might have yelped his heart out without
being taken notice of.
" The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, and
been put up again as often, came still nearer to the place where
she was at first started. The dogs pursued her, and these were
followed by the jolly knight, who rode upon a white gelding, en-
compassed by his tenants and servants, and cheering his hounds
with all the gaiety of five-and-twenty. One of the sportsmen
rode up to me, and told me that he was sure the chase was almost
at an end, because the old dogs, which had hitherto lain behind,
now headed the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare
took a large field just under us, followed by the full cry in
view. I must confess the brightness of the weather, the cheerful-
ness of every thing around me, the, chiding of the hounds, which
was returned upon us in a double echo from two neighbouring
hills, with the hallooing of the sportsmen, and the sounding of the
horn, lifted my spirits into a most lively pleasure, which I freely
indulged, because I was sure it was innocent. If I was under
any concern, it was on account of the poor hare, that was now
quite spent, and almost within the reach of her enemies; when the
huntsman, getting forward, threw down his pole before the dogs.
They were now within eight yards of that game which they had
been pursuing for almost as many hours; yet on the signal before-
mentioned they all made a sudden staiid, and though they con-
ADDISON.] SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 233
tinued opening as much as before, durst not once attempt to pass
beyond the pole. At the same time Sir Roger rode forward, and
alighting, took up the hare in his arms, which he soon after de-
livered up to one of his servants, with an order, if she could be
kept alive, to let her go in his great orchard, where it seems he has
several of these prisoners of war, who live together in a very com-
fortable captivity. I was highly pleased to see the discipline of
the pack, and the good nature of the knight, who could not find
in his heart to murder a creature that had given him so much
diversion.
" The walls of his great hall are covered with the horns of
several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chase, which he
thinks the most valuable furniture of his house, as they afford him
frequent topics of discourse, and show that he has not been idle.
At the lower end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with
hay, which his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and
the knight looks upon with great satisfaction, because it seems he
was but nine years old when his dog killed him. A little room
adjoining to the hall is a kind of arsenal, filled with guns of
several sizes and inventions, with which the knight has made great
havoc in the woods, and destroyed many thousands of pheasants,
partridges, and woodcocks. His stable doors are patched with
noses that belonged to foxes of the knight's own hunting down.
Sir Roger showed me one of them, that for distinction's sake has
a brass nail struck through it, which cost him about fifteen hours'
riding, carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a
brace of geldings, and lost above half his dogs. This the knight
looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of his life."
At the time when Addison described the race of fortune -telling gipsies for
the edification of the London public, there were few travellers for amusement,
and fewer who left the din and smoke of the town to wander through commons
and green lanes, the gipsies' haunts. It is remarkable how little change is to
be observed in the manners of the vagrant tribe. Addison's description might
have been written yesterday.
"As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend Sir
Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop of gipsies. Upon
234 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOH.
the first discovery of them, my friend was in some doubt whether
he should not exert the Justice of the Peace upon such a band of
lawless vagrants ; but not having his clerk with him, who is a ne-
cessary counsellor on these occasions, and fearing that his poultry
might fare the worse for it, he let the thought drop : but at the
same time gave me a particular account of the mischiefs they do
in the country, in stealing people's goods and spoiling their ser-
vants. ' If a stray piece of linen hangs upon a hedge,' says Sir
Roger, < they are sure to have it; if the hog loses his way in the
field, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey; our geese cannot
live in peace for them; if a man prosecutes them with severity,
his hen-roost is sure to pay for it : they generally straggle into these
parts about this time of the year, and set the heads of our servant-
maids so agog for husbands that we do not expect to have any
business done as it should be whilst they are in the country. I
have an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands with a piece
of silver every summer, and never fails being promised the hand-
somest young fellow in the parish for her pains. Your friend the
butler has been fool enough to be seduced by them, and though he
is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon, every time his fortune is
told him, generally shuts himself up in the pantry with an old
gipsy for above half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts
are the things they live upon, which they bestow very plentifully
upon all those that apply themselves to them. You see now and
then some handsome young jades among them : the sluts have
very often white teeth and black eyes.'
" Sir Roger observing that I listened with great attention to
his account of a people who were so entirely new to me, told me,
that if I would, they should tell us our fortunes. As I was very
well pleased with the knight's proposal, we rid up and communi-
cated our hands to them. A Cassandra of the crew, after having
examined my lines very diligently, told me, that I loved a pretty
maid in a corner, with some other particulars which I do not think
proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger alighted from his horse, and
exposing his palm to two or three that stood by him, they crumpled
it into all shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle that could
ADDISON.} SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 23$
be made in it ; when one of them, who was older and more sun-
burnt than the rest, told him that he had a widow in his line of
life : upon which the knight cried, Go, go, you are an idle baggage ;
and at the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy, finding that
he was not displeased in his heart, told him, after a further inquiry
into his hand, that his true love was constant, and that she should
dream of him to-night : my old friend cried Pish, and bid her go
on. The gipsy told him he was a bachelor, but would not be so
long; and that he was dearer to somebody than he thought: the
knight still repeated, she was an idle baggage, and bid her go
on. Ah, master, says the gipsy, that roguish leer of yours makes a
pretty woman's heart ache : you have not that simper about the
mouth for nothing. The uncouth gibberish with which all this
was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us the more
attentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money with her
that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on his
horse.
" As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me that he knew
several sensible people who believed these gipsies now and then
foretold very strange things; and for half an hour together appeared
more jocund than ordinary. In the height of his good humour,
meeting a common beggar upon the road, who was no conjurer,
as he went to relieve him he found his pocket was picked : that
being a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin are very
dexterous."
The " Spectator," No. 122, is wholly by Addison. We give it entire, as it
contains many touches of his delicate humour, as well as a quaint view of by-
gone manners : —
" A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his
own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the world. If the
last interferes with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected;
but otherwise, there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest
mind than to see those approbations which it gives itself seconded
by the applauses of the public. A man is more sure of his conduct
when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour is
236 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all that know
him.
" My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not only at
peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed by all about him.
He receives a suitable tribute for his universal benevolence to
mankind, in the returns of affection and good-will which are paid
him by every one that lives within his neighbourhood. I lately met
with two or three odd instances of that general respect which is
shown to the good old knight. He would needs carry Will
Wimble and myself with him to the county assizes. As we were
upon the road, Will Wimble joined a couple of plain men who rid
before us, and conversed with them for some time, during which
my friend Sir Roger acquainted me with their characters.
" 'The first of them/ says he, 'who has a spaniel by his side, is
a yeoman of about a hundred pounds a-year, an honest man.
He is just within the Game Act, and qualified to kill a hare
or a pheasant. He knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or
thrice a week; and by that means lives much cheaper than those
who have not so good an estate as himself. He would be a
good neighbour if he did not destroy so many partridges. In
short, he is a very sensible man; shoots flying; and has been
several times foreman of the petty jury.
" ' The other that rides along with him is Tom Touchy, a fel-
low famous for taking " the law" of everybody. There is not
one in the town where he lives that he has not sued at a quarter-
sessions. The rogue had once the impudence to go to law with
the widow. His head is full of costs, damages, and ejectments.
He plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so long for a trespass
in breaking one of his hedges, till he was forced to sell the ground
it enclosed to defray the charges of the prosecution; his father
left him fourscore pounds a year; but he has cast, and been cast
so often, that he is now not worth thirty. I suppose he is going
upon the old business of the willow-tree/
" As Sir Roger was giving me this account of Tom Touchy,
Will Wimble and his two companions stopped short till we came
up to them. After having paid their respects to Sir Roger, Will
ADDISON.] SIX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 237
told him that Mr Touchy and he must appeal to him upon a dis-
pute that arose between them. Will, it seems, had been giving
his fellow-traveller an account of his angling one day in such a
hole ; when Tom Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, told
him that Mr Such-a-one, if he pleased, might take the law of him
for fishing in that part of the river. My friend Sir Roger heard
them both upon a round trot; and after having paused some time,
told them, with the air of a man who would not give his judgment
rashly, that ' much might be said on both sides.' They were
neither of them dissatisfied with the knight's determination, be-
cause neither of them found himself in the wrong by it. Upon
which we made the best of our way to the assizes.
" The court was set before Sir Roger came ; but, notwithstand-
ing all the justices had taken their places upon the bench, they
made room for the old knight at the head of them; who, for his
reputation in the county, took occasion to whisper in the judge's
ear that he was glad his lordship had met with so much good
weather in his circuit. I was listening to the proceedings of the
court with much attention, and infinitely pleased with that great
appearance of solemnity which so properly accompanies such a
public administration of our laws, when, after about an hour's
sitting, I observed, to my great surprise, in the midst of a trial,
that my friend Sir Roger was getting up to speak. I was in
some pain for him, until I found he had acquitted himself of
two or three sentences with a look of much business and great
intrepidity.
" Upon his first rising, the court was hushed, and a general
whisper ran among the country-people that Sir Roger ' was up.'
The speech he made was so little to the purpose, that I shall
not trouble my readers with an account of it; and I believe was
not so much designed by the knight himself to inform the court,
as to give him a figure in my eye, and keep up his credit in the
county.
" I was highly delighted, when the court rose, to see the gen-
tlemen of the county gathering about my old friend, and striving
who should compliment him most; at the same time that the ordi-
238 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [ADDISOK.
nary people gazed upon him at a distance, not a little admiring
his courage that he was not afraid to speak to the judge.
" In our return home we met with a very odd accident, which
I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how desirous all who
know Sir Roger are of giving him marks of their esteem. When
we were arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a little
inn to rest ourselves and our horses. The man of the house had,
it seems, been formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to
do honour to his old master, had, some time since, unknown to
Sir Roger, put him up in a sign-post before the door; so that the
knight's head hung out upon the road about a week before he
himself knew anything of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger was
acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded
wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had
made him too high a compliment; and, when the fellow seemed
to think that could hardly be, added, with a more decisive look,
that it was too great an honour for any man under a duke;
but told him, at the same time, that it might be altered with a
very few touches, and that he himself would be at the charge of
it. Accordingly, they got a painter by the knight's directions to
add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by a little aggravation to
the features to change it into the Saracen's Head. I should not
have known this story, had not the innkeeper, upon Sir Roger's
alighting, told him in my hearing that his honour's head was
brought last night with the alterations that he had ordered to be
made in it. Upon this, my friend, with his usual cheerfulness re-
lated the particulars above mentioned, and ordered the head to
be brought into the room. I could not forbear discovering greater
expressions of mirth than ordinary upon the appearance of this
monstrous face, under which, notwithstanding it was made to
frown and stare in a most extraordinary manner, I could still dis-
cover a distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon
seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought it pos-
sible for people to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my
usual silence; but, upon the knight's conjuring me to tell him
whether it was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I com-
VARIOUS.]
BALLADS.
239
posed my countenance in the best manner I could, and replied,
' that much might be said on both sides/
" These several adventures, with the knighfs behaviour in
them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with in any of
my travels."
40.—
GENTLE HERDSMAN.
[THIS beautiful old ballad, being " A Dialogue between a Pilgrim and a
Herdsman," is printed in Percy's " Reliques of Ancient Poetry." It has evi-
dently suggested Goldsmith's ballad of "Edwin and Angelina," and three of
the stanzas of the modern poem are paraphrased from the Gentle Herdsman.]
Gentle herdsman, tell to me,
Of courtesy I thee pray,
Unto the town of Walsingham
Which is the right and ready way.
" Unto the town of Walsingham
The way is hard for to be gone ;
And very crooked are those paths
For you to find out all alone."
Were the miles doubled thrice,
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence ;
It is so grievous and so ill.
"Thy years are young, thy face is fair,
Thy wits are weak, thy thoughts
are green ;
Time hath not given thee leave as yet,
For to commit so great a sin."
Yes, herdsman, yes, so wouldst thou
say,
If thou knewest so much as I ;
My wits, and thoughts, and all the
rest,
Have well deserved for to die.
I am not what I seem to be,
My clothes and sex do differ far —
I am a woman, woe is me !
Born to grief and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill :
And though my tears will not avail,
Most dearly I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere could be ;
Of comely mien and shape he was,
And tenderly he loved me.
When thus I saw he loved me well,
I grew so proud his pain to see,
That I, who did not know myself,
Thought scorn of such a youth as he.
And grew so coy and nice to please,
As woman's looks are often so,
He might not kiss nor hand forsooth,
Unless I will'd him so to do.
Thus being wearied with delays
To see I pitied not his grief,
He got him to a secret place,
And there he died without relief.
And for his sake these weeds I wear,
And sacrifice my tender age;
240
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[VARIOUS.
And every day I '11 beg my bread,
To undergo this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I fast and pray,
And ever will do till I die ;
And get me to some secret place,
For so did he, and so will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secrets I thee pray ;
Unto the town of Walsingham
Show me the right and ready way.
" Now go thy ways, and God before !
For He must ever guide thee still :
Turn down that dale, the right hand
path.
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well ! "
SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
[THIS is the Scottish ballad which Coleridge, in his
"the grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.'
"Reliques."]
Dejection," calls
This is also printed in Percy's
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine :
O quhar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine ?
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the king's richt kne :
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se.
The king has written a braid letter,
And sign'd it wi' his hand j
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he :
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me ,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se ?
Mak hast, mak hast, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I fear a deadlie storme.
Late, late yestreen, I saw the new
moone
Wi' the auld moone hi hir arme ;
And I feir, I feir, my dear master,
That we will com to harme.
O our Scots nobles were richt laith
To weet their cork-heil'd schoone ;
But lang owre a' the play were play'd,
Their hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang, may their ladies sit
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Or eir they see Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang, may the ladies stand,
Wi' their gold kerns in their hair,
Waiting for their ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
It 's fiftie fadom deep ;
And there lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit
VARIOUS.] BALLADS. 241
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
[THIS ballad, which, as Leigh Hunt has truly said, "must have suffused more
eyes with tears of the first water than any other ballad that ever was written,"
is the production of Lady Anne Barnard, who died in 1825. In a letter to Sir
Walter Scott this lady gives the following interesting and curious account of
the circumstances under which she composed this most charming poem : —
*•" 'Robin Gray,' so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcar-
ras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had
married, and accompanied her husband to London. I was melancholy, and
endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an
ancient Scotch melody of which I was passionately fond ; , who lived before
your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having
improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's tune to different
words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in
humble life such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet,
I called to my little sister, now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person
near me: — 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my
heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea — and
broken her father's arm — and made her mother fall sick — and given her Auld
Robin Gray for a lover j but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the
four lines, poor thing! Help me to one.' 'Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said
the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song
completed. At our fireside, and amongst our neighbours, 'Auld Robin Gray'
was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met
with ; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiv-
ing the shyness it created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully
kept my own secret.
" Meanwhile, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a dispute, it
afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth and eighteenth cen-
turies. ' Robin Gray ' was either a very ancient ballad, composed perhaps by
David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a very modern matter, and no curiosity
at all. I was persecuted to avow whether I had written it or not — where I had
got it. Old Sophy kept my counsel, and I kept my own, in spite of the grati-
fication of seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the
person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more flattering
circumstance of a visit from Mr Jerningham, Secretary to the Antiquarian So-
ciety, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me in a manner I took amiss.
Had he asked me the question obligingly, I should have told him the fact dis-
tinctly and confidentially. The annoyance, however, of this important ambas-
sador from the antiquaries was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of
the 'Ballat of Auld Robin Gray's Courtship,' as performed by dancing dogs
under my window. It proved its popularity from the highest to the lowest,
and gave me pleasure while I hugged myself in my obscurity. "1
VOL. I. Q
242 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When a' the weary world to quiet rest are gane,
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
Unken'd by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride ;
But saving ae crown-piece, he 'd naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ;
And the crown and the pound, oh, they were baith for me !
Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away;
My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea —
And Auld Robin Gray, oh ! he came a-courting me.
My father cou'dna work, my mother cou'dna spin ;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win;
Auld Robin maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, " Jenny, oh ! for their sakes, will you marry me?"
My heart it said Na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack ;
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out, Woe is me !
My father argued sair — my mother didna speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Auld^Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, " I 'm come hame, my love, to marry thee ! "
Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
Ae kiss we took, nae mair — I bad him gang awa.
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
For oh, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me !
CARLETON.I AN IRISH VILLAGE. 243
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin !
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray, oh ! he is sae kind to me.
41.— ^n |«8fe
CARLETON.
[THE following is extracted from " Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry,"
published in 1830. In a subsequent edition of that work, the author, William
Carleton, tells the story of his own life; and we thence learn how much of his
peculiar felicity in delineating character and manners is derived from the ex-
perience of his early days. He was born in the parish of Clogher, Tyrone, in
1798. His father, a peasant, was wonderful as a story-teller; his mother, who
possessed a voice of exquisite sweetness, was eminently skilled in her native
music. Here was the real education of such a writer. Mr Carleton has pub-
lished a Second Series of " Traits and Stories," and other Irish Tales.]
The village of Findamore was situated at the foot of a long green
hill, the outline of which formed a low arch, as it rose to the eye
against the horizon. This hill was studded with clumps of beeches,
and sometimes enclosed as a meadow. In the month of July,
when the grass on it was long, many an hour have I spent in soli-
tary enjoyment, watching the wavy motion produced on its pliant
surface by the sunny winds, or the flight of the cloud shadows,
like gigantic phantoms, as they swept rapidly over it, whilst the
murmur of the rocking trees, and the glaring of their bright leaves
in the sun, produced a heartfelt pleasure, the very memory of which
rises in my imagination like some fading recollection of a brighter
world.
At the foot of this hill ran a clear deep-banked river, bounded
on one side by a slip of rich level meadow, and on the other by a
kind of common for the village geese, whose white feathers during
the summer season lay scattered over its green surface. It was
also the playground for the boys of the village school; for there
ran that part of the river, which, with very correct judgment, the
urchins had selected as their bathing-place. A little slope or
244 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CARLETON.
watering ground in the bank brought them to the edge of the
stream, where the bottom fell away into the fearful depths of the
whirlpool under the hanging oak on the other bank. Well do I
remember the first time I ventured to swim across it, and even yet
do I see in imagination the two bunches of water flags on which
the inexperinced swimmers trusted themselves in the water.
About two hundred yards above this, the boreen* which led
from the village to the main road, crossed the river by one of
those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches
across the road — an almost impassable barrier to horse and car.
On passing the bridge in a northern direction, you found a range
of low thatched houses on each side of the road ; and if one
o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew near, you might observe columns
of blue smoke curling up from a row of chimneys, some made of
wicker creels plastered over with a rich coat of mud, some of old
narrow bottomless tubs, and others, with a greater appearance of
taste, ornamented with thick circular ropes of straw, sewed toge-
ther like bees' skeps with the peel of a brier ; and many having
nothing but the open vent above. But the smoke by no means
escaped by its legitimate aperture, for you might observe little
clouds of it bursting out of the doors and windows. The panes
of the latter, being mostly stopped at other times with old hats
and rags, were now left entirely open for the purpose of giving it
a free escape.
Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills,
each with its concomitant sink of green rotten water ; and if it
happened that a stout-looking woman, with watery eyes, and a
yellow cap hung loosely upon her matted locks, came with a
chubby urchin on one arm, and a pot of dirty water in her hand,
its unceremonious ejection in the aforesaid sink would be apt to
send you up the village with your forefinger and thumb (for what
purpose you would yourself perfectly understand) closely, but not
knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But, independently of this,
you would be apt to have other reasons for giving your horse,
whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen of barking
* A littk road.
CARLETON.] AN IRISH VILLAGE. 245
curs and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty sharp
touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bitterly of the odour
of the atmosphere. It is no landscape without figures ; and you
might notice — if you are, as I suppose you to be, a man of obser-
vation— in every sink as you pass along, a "slip of a pig"
stretched in the middle of the mud, the very beau-ideal of luxury,
giving occasionally a long luxuriant grunt, highly expressive of his
enjoyment ; or perhaps an old farrower, lying in indolent repose,
with half a dozen young ones jostling each other for their draught,
and punching her belly with their little snouts, reckless of the
fumes they are creating ; whilst the loud crow of the cock, as he
confidently flaps his wings on his own dunghill, gives the warning
note for the hour of dinner.
As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust out
of the doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a grotesque
visage peeping by a short cut through the paneless windows, or a
tattered female flying to snatch up her urchin, that has been
tumbling itself heels up in the dirt of the road, lest " the gentle-
lan's horse might ride over it ;" and if you happen to look be-
lind, you may observe a shaggy-headed youth in tattered frieze,
with one hand thrust indolently in his breast, standing at the door
in conversation with the inmates, a broad grin of sarcastic ridicule
on his face, in the act of breaking a joke or two on yourself or
your horse ; or perhaps your jaw may be saluted with a lump ot
clay, just hard enough not to fall asunder as it flies, cast by some
ragged gossoon from behind a hedge, who squats himself in a
ridge of com to avoid detection.
Seated upon a hob at the door, you may observe a toil-worn
man, without coat or waistcoat, his red, muscular, sunburnt
shoulder peeping through the remnant of a shirt, mending his
shoes with a piece of twisted flax, called a lingel, or perhaps sew-
ing two footless stockings, or martyeens, to his coat, as a substi-
tute for sleeves.
In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you will
see a solitary labourer, working with that carelessness and apathy
that characterise an Irishman when he labours for himself, lean-
246 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CARLETON.
ing upon his spade to look after you, and glad of any excuse to
be idle.
The houses, however, are not all such as I have described — far
from it. You see here and there, between the more humble
cabins, a stout comfortable-looking farm-house, with ornamental
thatching and well-glazed windows ; adjoining to which is a hay-
yard, with five or six large stacks of corn, well trimmed and roped,
and a fine yellow weatherbeaten old hayrick, half cut, — not tak-
ing into account twelve or thirteen circular strata of stones that
mark out the foundations on which others had been raised.
Neither is the rich smell of oaten or wheaten bread, which the
good wife is baking on the griddle, unpleasant to your nostrils ;
nor would the bubbling of a large pot, in which you might see,
should you chance to enter, a prodigious square of fat, yellow,
and almost transparent bacon tumbling about, be an unpleasant
object; truly, as it hangs over a large fire, with well-swept hearth-
stone, it is in good keeping with the white settle and chairs, and
the dresser with noggins, wooden trenchers, and pewter dishes,
perfectly clean, and as well polished as a French courtier.
As you leave the village, you have to the left, a view of the hill
which I have already described ; and to the right, a level expanse
of fertile country, bounded by a good view of respectable moun-
tains, peering directly into the sky; and in a line that forms an
acute angle from the point of the road where you ride, is a delight-
ful valley, in the bottom of which shines a pretty lake; and a
little beyond, on the slope of a green hill, rises a splendid house,
surrounded by a park well wooded and stocked with deer. You
have now topped the little hill above the village, and a straight
line of level road, a mile long, goes forward to a country town,
which lies immediately behind that white church, with its spire
cutting into the sky before you. You descend on the other side,
and, having advanced a few perches, look to the left, where you
see a long thatched chapel, only distinguished from a dwelling-
house by its want of chimneys, and a small stone cross that stands
on the top of the eastern gable ; behind it is a grave-yard, and
beside it a snug public-house, well white-washed; then, to the
CARLETON.] AN IRISH VILLAGE. 247
right, you observe a door, apparently in the side of a clay bank,
which rises considerably above the pavement of the road. What !
you ask yourself, can this be a human habitation 1 But ere you
have time to answer the question, a confused buzz of voices from
within reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little gossoon,
with a red close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his
hand a short white stick, or the thigh-bone of a horse, which you
at once recognise as "the pass" of a village school, gives you the
full information. He has an ink-horn, covered with leather,
dangling at the button-hole (for he has long since played away
the buttons) of his frieze jacket — his mouth is circumscribed with
'a streak of ink — his pen is stuck knowingly behind his ear — his
shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and blue — on
each heel a kibe — his "leather crackers," videlicet, breeches,
shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps of
his knees. Having spied you, he places his hand over his brows,
to throw back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers at you from
under it, till he breaks out into a laugh, exclaiming, half to him-
self, half to you —
" You a gintleman ! — no, nor one of your breed never was, you
procthorin' thief, you !"
You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary,
when half a dozen of those seated next it notice you.
" Oh, sir, here 's a gintleman on a horse ! — masther, sir, here ;s a
gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that 's looking
in at us."
"Silence!" exclaims the master; "back from the door — boys,
rehearse — every one of you rehearse, I say, you Boetians, till the
gintleman goes past !"
" I want to go out, if you plase, sir."
" No, you don't, Phelim."
" I do, indeed, sir."
" What ! is it afther contradictin' me you'd be? Don't you see
the 'porter's' out, and you can't go."
" Well, 'tis Mat Meehan has it, sir; and he's out this half hour,
sir; I can't stay in, sir."
248 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GALT.
" You want to be idling your time looking at the gintleman,
Phelim."
" No, indeed, sir."
" Phelim, I knows you of ould — go to your sate. I tell you,
Phelim, you were born for the encouragement of the hemp manu-
facture, and you'll die promoting it."
In the meantime the master puts his head out of the door, his
body stooped to a " half bend " — a phrase, and the exact curve
which it forms, I leave for the present to your own sagacity — and
surveys you until you pass. That is an Irish hedge-school, and
the personage who follows you with his eye a hedge-schoolmaster.
0f%
GALT.
[JOHN GALT, a man of decided genius, though very unequal in his efforts,
was born in Ayrshire in 1779. He died in 1839. It was late in life before he
discovered the proper direction of his talents — that of quiet fiction, founded
upon a faithful observation of the domestic characteristics of the humbler
classes of his own countrymen. "The Annals of the Parish," — the work
which at once established his reputation, — was published in 1821. "Lawrie
Todd," from which the following is an extract, appeared in 1830, after Mr
Gait's return from an official station in Canada. As a picture of the Scotch-
man, in America, there is nothing superior in homely truth and quaint humour.]
About daybreak it began to rain, and continued to pour with
increasing violence all the morning ; no one thought of stirring
abroad who could keep within shelter. My boys and I had for
task only to keep the fire at the door of the shanty brisk and
blazing, and to notice that the pools which began to form around
us did not become too large ; for sometimes, besides the accumu-
lation of the rain, little streams would suddenly break out, and,
rushing towards us, would have extinguished our fire, had we not
been vigilant.
The site I had chosen for the shanty was near to a little brook,
on the top of the main river's bank. In fine weather, no situation
could be more beautiful ; the brook was clear as crystal, and fell
GALT.] THE RISING OF THE WATERS. 249
in a small cascade into the river, which, broad and deep, ran
beneath the bank with a swift but smooth current
The forest up the river had not been explored above a mile or
two : all beyond was the unknown wilderness. Some vague
rumours of small lakes and beaver dams were circulated in the
village, but no importance was attached to the information : save
but for the occasional little torrents with which the rain sometimes
hastily threatened to extinguish our fires, we had no cause to dread
inundation.
The rain still continued to fall incessantly : the pools it formed
in the hollows of the ground began, towards noon, to overflow
their banks, and to become united. By and by something like a
slight current was observed passing from one to another; but,
thinking only of preserving our fire, we no farther noticed this
than by occasionally running out of the shanty into the shower,
and scraping a channel to let the water run off into the brook or
the river.
It was hoped that about noon the rain would slacken; but in
this we were disappointed. It continued to increase, and the
ground began to be so flooded, while the brook swelled to a river,
that we thought it might become necessary to shift our tent to a
higher part of the bank. To do this we were, however, reluctant ;
for it was impossible to encounter the deluge without being almost
instantly soaked to the skin ; and we had put the shanty up with
more care and pains than usual, intending it should serve us for a
home until our house was comfortably furnished.
About three o'clock the skies were dreadfully darkened and
overcast. I had never seen such darkness while the sun was
above the horizon, and still the rain continued to descend in cat-
aracts, but at fits and intervals. No man, who had not seen the
like, would credit the description.
Suddenly a sudden flash of lightning, followed by an instanta-
neous thunder-peal, lightened up all the forest; and almost in the
same moment the rain came lavishing along as if the windows of
heaven were opened ; anon another flash, and a louder peal burst
upon us, as if the whole forest was rending over and around us.
250 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GALT.
I drew my helpless and trembling little boys under the skirts of
my greatcoat.
Then there was another frantic flash, and the roar of the thun-
der was augmented by the riven trees that fell, cloven on all sides
in a whirlwind of splinters. But though the lightning was more
terrible than scimitars, and the thunder roared as if the vaults of
heaven were shaken to pieces and tumbling in, the irresistible rain
was still more appalling than either. I have said it was as if the
windows of heaven were opened. About sunset the ground-floods
were as if the fountains of the great deep were breaking up.
I pressed my shivering children to my bosom, but I could not
speak. At the common shanty, where there had been for some
time an affectation of mirth and ribaldry, there was now silence ;
at last, as if with one accord, all the inhabitants rushed from be-
low their miserable shed, tore it into pieces, and ran with the frag-
ments to a higher ground, crying wildly, " The river is rising!"
I had seen it swelling for some time, but our shanty stood so
far above the stream, that I had no fear it would reach us.
Scarcely, however, had the axemen escaped from theirs, and
planted themselves on the crown of the rising ground nearer
to us, where they were hastily constructing another shed, when
a tremendous crash and roar was heard at some distance in the
woods, higher up the stream. It was so awful, I had almost said
so omnipotent, in the sound, that I started on my feet, and shook
my treasures from me. For a moment the Niagara of the river
seemed almost to pause — it was but for a moment — for, instantly
after, the noise of the rending of weighty trees, the crashing and
the tearing of the rooted forest, rose around. The waters of the
river, troubled and raging, came hurling with the wreck of the
woods, sweeping with inconceivable fury everything that stood
within its scope; a lake had burst its banks.
The sudden rise of the waters soon, however, subsided; I saw
it ebbing fast, and comforted my terrified boys. The rain also
began to abate. Instead of those dreaded sheets of waves which
fell upon us as if some vast ocean behind the forest was heaving
over its spray, a thick continued small rain came on; and, about
GALT.] THE RISING OF THE WA TERS. 25 1
an hour after sunset, streaks and breaks in the clouds gave some
token that the worst was over; it was not however so, for about
the same time a stream appeared in the hollow, between the
rising ground to which the axemen had retired, and the little
knoll on which our shanty stood ; at the same time the waters
in the river began to swell again. There was on this occasion
no abrupt and bursting noise ; but the night was fast closing upon
us, and a hoarse muttering and angry sound of many waters grew
louder and louder on all sides.
The darkness and increasing rage of the river, which there was
just twilight enough to show was rising above the brim of the
bank, smote me with inexpressible terror. I snatched my child-
ren by the hand, and rushed forward to join the axemen ; but
the torrent between us rolled so violently, that to pass was impos-
sible, and the waters still continued to rise.
I called aloud to the axemen for assistance; and when they
heard my desperate cries, they came out of the shed, some with
burning brands, and others with their axes glittering in the flames;
but they could render no help ; at last, one man, a fearless back-
woodsman, happened to observe, by the firelight, a tree on the
bank of the torrent, which it in some degree overhung, and he
called for others to join him in making a bridge. In the course
of a few minutes the tree was laid across the stream, and we
scrambled over, just as the river extinguished our fire and swept
our shanty away.
This rescue was in itself so wonderful, and the scene had been
so terrible, that it was some time after we were safe before I could
rouse myself to believe that I was not in the fangs of the night-
mare. My poor boys clung to me as if still not assured of their
security, and I wept upon their necks in the ecstasy of an un-
speakable passion of anguish and joy.
About this time the mizzling rain began to fall softer; the dawn
of the morn appeared through the upper branches of the forest,
and here and there the stars looked out from their windows in the
clouds. The storm was gone, and the deluge assuaged; the floods
all around us gradually ebbed away, and the insolent and unknown
252 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROBERT HALL.
waters which had so swelled the river shrunk within their banks,
and, long before the morning, had retired from the scene.
Need I say that anthems of deliverance were heard in our
camp that night? Oh, surely no! The woods answered to our
psalms, and waved their mighty arms ; the green leaves clapped
their hands; and the blessed moon, lifting the veil from her fore-
head, and looking down upon us through the boughs, gladdened
our solemn rejoicing.
43.—
ROBERT HALL.
[THE following " Half-Hour " is from a Sermon entitled, " The Advantages
of Knowledge .to the Lower Classes," preached (in recommendation of a school)
at Leicester, by the Rev. Robert Hall, r.nd published by him in 1810. Robert
Hall was the son of a minister of the Baptist persuasion, and was himself
educated for the same course of usefulness. He was born in 1764, and died
in 183 1. His various tracts and sermons were collected by Dr Olinthus Gregory,
and published in 6 vols. They have recently been reprinted in a cheap form.
Some of his works are of a polemical nature ; but many of them recommend
themselves to all Christians by their fervent piety and their flowing eloquence.
He may be considered the most celebrated man, amongst the Dissenters, of
modern times — a man fitted to adorn the ministry and elevate humanity by the
holiness of his life, as well as by the splendour of his talents and the force of
his character.]
Religion, on account of its intimate relation to a future state,
is every man's proper business, and should be his chief care.
Of knowledge in general, there are branches which it would be
preposterous in the bulk of mankind to attempt to acquire, because
they have no immediate connexion with their duties, and demand
talents which nature has denied, or opportunities which Providence
has withheld. But with respect to the primary truths of religion
the case is different; they are of such daily use and necessity,
that they form not the materials of mental luxury, so properly, as
the food of the mind. In improving the character, the influence of
general knowledge is often feeble, and always indirect; of religious
knowledge the tendency to purify the heart is immediate, and
ROBERT HALL.] RELIGIO US KNO W LEDGE. 253
forms its professed scope and design. "This is life eternal, to
know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou
hast sent." To ascertain the character of the Supreme Author of
all things, to know, as far as we are capable of comprehending
such a subject, what is His moral disposition, what the situation
we stand in towards Him, and the principles by which He con-
ducts His administration, will be allowed by every considerate
person to be of the highest consequence. Compared to this, all
other speculations and inquiries sink into insignificance ; because
every event that can befall us is in His hands, and by His sentence
our final condition must be fixed. To regard such an inquiry
with indifference is the mark not of a noble but of an abject
mind, which, immersed in sensuality or amused with trifles, " deems
itself unworthy of eternal life." To be so absorbed in worldly
pursuits as to neglect future prospects, is a conduct that can
plead no excuse, until it is ascertained beyond all doubt or con-
tradiction that there is no hereafter, and that nothing remains
but that we " eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." Even in
that case, to forego the hope of immortality without a sigh ; to
be gay and sportive on the brink of destruction, in the very
moment of relinquishing prospects on which the wisest and best
in every age have delighted to dwell, is the indication of a base
and degenerate spirit. If existence be a good, the eternal loss of
it must be a great evil ; if it be an evil, reason suggests the pro-
priety of inquiring why it is so, of investigating the maladies by
which it is oppressed. Amidst the darkness and uncertainty
which hang over our future condition, revelation, by bringing
life and immortality to light, affords the only relief. In the Bible
alone we learn the real character of the Supreme Being; His
holiness, justice, mercy, and truth; the moral condition of man,
considered in his relation to Him, is clearly pointed out; the
doom of impenitent transgressors denounced; and the method of
obtaining mercy, through the interposition of a Divine Mediator,
plainly revealed. There are two considerations which may suf-
fice to evince the indispensable necessity of scriptural knowledge :
i. The Scriptures contain an authentic discovery of the way
254 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [ROBERT HALL.
" of salvation." They are the revelation of mercy to a lost world ;
a reply to that most interesting inquiry, What we must do to be
saved. The distinguishing feature of the gospel system is the
economy of redemption, or the gracious provision the Supreme
Being has thought fit to make for reconciling the world to Himself,
by the manifestation in human nature of His own Son. It is this
which constitutes it the gospel, by way of eminence, or the glad
tidings concerning our Saviour Jesus Christ, on the right reception
of which, or its rejection, turns our everlasting weal or woe. It
is not from the character of God, as our Creator, it should be
remembered, that the hope of the guilty can arise; the fullest
development of His essential perfections could afford no relief in
this case, and therefore natural religion, were it capable of being
carried to the utmost perfection, can never supersede the neces-
sity of revealed. To inspire confidence an express communication
from heaven is necessary; since the introduction of sin has produced
a peculiarity in our situation, and a perplexity in our prospects,
which nothing but an express assurance of mercy can remove.
In what manner the blessed and only Potentate may think fit
to dispose of a race of apostates, is a question on which reason
can suggest nothing satisfactory, nothing salutary; a question, in the
solution of which, there being no data to proceed upon, wisdom
and folly fail alike, and every order of intellect is reduced to a
level ; for " who hath known the mind of the Lord, or, being his
counsellor, hath taught him ? " It is a secret which, had He not
been pleased to unfold it, must have for ever remained in the
breast of the Deity. This secret, in infinite mercy, He has con-
descended to disclose; the silence, not that which John witnessed
in the Apocalypse, of half an hour, but that of ages, is broken;
the darkness is past, and we behold, in the gospel, the astonish-
ing spectacle of " God in Christ reconciling the world unto Him-
self, not imputing to them their trespasses," and sending forth His
ambassadors to " entreat us in Christ's stead to be reconciled to
God." To that strange insensibility with respect to the concerns
of a future world, which is at once the indication and consequence
of the fall, must we ascribe the languid attention with which this
ROBERT HALL.] RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE. 255
communication is received: instead of producing, as it ought,
transports of gratitude and joy in every breast.
This, however we may be disposed to regard it, is unquestion-
ably the grand peculiarity of the gospel, the exclusive boast and
treasure of the Scriptures, and most emphatically "the way of
salvation," not only as it reveals the gracious intentions of God
to a sinful world, but as it lays a solid foundation for the super-
natural duties of faith and repentance. All the discoveries of the
gospel bear a most intimate relation to the character and offices
of the Saviour; from Him they emanate, in Him they centre ; nor
is anything we learn from the Old and the New Testament of saving
tendency, further than as a part of the truth as it is "in Jesus.''
The neglect of considering revelation in this light is a fruitful
source of infidelity. Viewing it in no higher character than a re-
publication of the law of nature, men are first led to doubt the
importance, and next the truth, of the discoveries it contains; an
easy and natural transition, since the question of their importance
is so complicated with that of their truth, in the Scriptures them-
selves, that the most refined ingenuity cannot long keep them
separate. "It gives the knowledge of salvation by the remission
of sins, through the tender mercy of our God, whereby the day-
spring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit
in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the
way of peace." While we contemplate it under this, its true
character, we view it in its just dimensions, and feel no inclination
to extenuate the force of those representations which are ex-
pressive of its pre-eminent dignity. There is nothing will be
allowed to come into comparison with it, nothing we shall not be
ready to sacrifice for a participation of its blessings, and the ex-
tension of its influence. The veneration we shall feel for the
Bible, as the depository of saving knowledge, will be totally
distinct, not only from what we attach to any other book, but
from that admiration its other properties inspire ; and the variety
and antiquity of its history, the light it affords in various re-
searches, its inimitable touches of nature, together with the
sublimity and beauty so copiously poured over its pages, will be
256 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROBERT HALI,
deemed subsidiary ornaments, the embellishments of the casket
which contains the "pearl of great price."
Scriptural knowledge is of inestimable value on account of its
supplying an infallible rule of life. To the most untutored mind
the information it affords on this subject is far more full and pre-
cise than the highest efforts of reason could attain. In the best
moral precepts issuing from human wisdom, there is an incurable
defect in that want of authority which robs them of their power
over the conscience; they are obligatory no further than their
reason is perceived: a deduction of proofs is necessary, more or
less intricate and uncertain, and even when clearest it is still but
the language of man to man, respectable as sage advice, but
wanting the force and authority of law. In a well-attested revela-
tion it is the judge speaking from the tribunal, the Supreme Legis-
lator promulgating and interpreting His own laws. With what
force and conviction do these apostles and prophets address us,
whose miraculous powers attest them to be the servants of the
Most High, the immediate organs of the Deity ! As the morality
of the gospel is more pure and comprehensive than was ever in-
culcated before, so the consideration of its Divine origination
invests it with an energy of which every system not expressly
founded upon it is entirely devoid. We turn at our peril from
Him who speaketh to us from heaven.
Of an accountable creature duty is the concern of every mo-
ment, since he is every moment pleasing or displeasing God. It
is a universal element, mingling with every action, and qualifying
every disposition and pursuit. The moral quality of conduct, as
it serves both to ascertain and to form the character, has conse-
quences in a future world so certain and infallible, that it is repre-
sented in Scripture as a seed no part of which is lost, " for what-
soever a man soweth, that also shall he reap." That rectitude
which the inspired writers usually denominate holiness, is the
health and beauty of the soul, capable of bestowing dignity in
the absence of every other accomplishment, while the want of it
leaves the possessor of the richest intellectual endowments a
painted sepulchre. Hence results the indispensable necessity to
ROBERT HALL.] RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE. 257
every description of persons, of sound religious instruction, and of
an intimate acquaintance with the Scriptures as its genuine source.
It must be confessed, from melancholy experience, that a specu-
lative acquaintance with the rules of duty is too compatible with
the violation of its dictates, and that it is possible for the convic-
tions of conscience to be habitually overpowered by the corrupt
suggestions of appetite. To see distinctly the right way, and to
pursue it, are not precisely the same thing. Still, nothing in the
order of means promises so much success as the diligent inculca-
tion of revealed truth. He who is acquainted with the terrors of
the Lord cannot live in the neglect of God and religion with
present, any more than with future, impunity; the path of dis-
obedience is obstructed, if not rendered impassable ; and wherever
he turns his eyes he beholds the sword of divine justice stretched
out to intercept his passage. Guilt will be appalled, conscience
alarmed, and the fruits of unlawful gratification imbittered to his
taste.
It is surely desirable to place as many obstacles as possible in
the path of ruin : to take care that the image of death shall meet
the offender at every turn; that he shall not be able to persist
without treading upon briers and scorpions, without forcing his
way through obstructions more formidable than he can expect to
meet with in a contrary course. If you can enlist the nobler part
of his nature under the banners of virtue, set him at war with
himself, and subject him to the necessity, should he persevere, of
stifling and overcoming whatever is most characteristic of a reason-
able creature, you have done what will probably not be unpro-
ductive of advantage. If he be at the same time reminded, by his
acquaintance with the Word of God, of a better state of mind
being attainable, a better destiny reserved (provided they are will-
ing and obedient) for the children of men, there is room to hope
that, " wearied," to speak in the language of the prophet, " in the
greatness of his way," he will bethink himself of the true refuge,
and implore the Spirit of grace to aid his weakness, and subdue
his corruptions. Sound religious instruction is a perpetual coun-
terpoise to the force of depravity. " The law of the Lord is per-
VOL. i. R
258 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROBERT HALL.
feet, converting the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, making
wise the simple; the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlight-
ening the eyes; the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever;
the judgments of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether."
While we insist on the absolute necessity of an acquaintance
with the Word of God, we are equally convinced it is but an
instrument which, like every other, requires a hand to wield it;
and that, important as it is in the order of means, the Spirit of
Christ only can make it effectual, which ought therefore to be
earnestly and incessantly implored for that purpose. " Open mine
eyes," saith the Psalmist, " and I shall behold wonderful things
out of thy law." We trust it will be your care, who have the
conduct of the school we are recommending to the patronage of
this audience, to impress on these children a deep conviction of
their radical corruption, and of the necessity of the agency of the
Spirit to render the knowledge they acquire practical and experi-
mental. " In the morning sow your seed, in the evening withhold
not your hand; but remember that neither he that soweth, nor he
that watereth, is anything; it is God that giveth the increase." Be
not satisfied with making them read a lesson, or repeat a prayer.
By everything tender and solemn in religion, by a due admixture
of the awful considerations drawn from the prospects of death and
judgment, with others of a more pleasing nature, aim to fix serious
impressions on their hearts. Aim to produce a religious concern,
carefully watch its progress, and endeavour to conduct it to a
prosperous issue. Lead them to the footstool of the Saviour;
teach them to rely, as guilty creatures, on His merits alone,
and to commit their eternal interests entirely into His hands.
Let the salvation of these children be the object to which every
word of your instructions, every exertion of your authority, is
directed. Despise the profane clamour which would deter you
from attempting to render them serious, from an apprehension
of its making them melancholy, not doubting for a moment
that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and that
the path to true happiness Iks through purity, humility, and
devotion. Meditate the worth of souls; meditate deeply the
ROBERT HALL.] RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE. 259
lessons the Scriptures afford on their inconceivable value and
eternal duration. While the philosopher wearies himself with
endless speculations on their physical properties and nature, while
the politician only contemplates the social arrangements of man-
kind and the shifting forms of policy, fix your attention on the
individual importance of man as the creature of God, and a can-
didate for immortality. Let it be your highest ambition to train
up these children for an unchanging condition of being. Spare
no pains to recover them to the image of God; render familiar to
their minds, in all its extent, the various branches of that " holi-
ness" without which "none can see the Lord." Inculcate the
obligation, and endeavour to inspire the love, of that rectitude,
that eternal rectitude, which was with God before time began, was
embodied in the person of His Son., and in its lower communica-
tions will survive every sublunary change, emerge in the dissolu-
tion of all things, and be impressed in refulgent characters on the
new heavens, and the new earth, " in which dwelleth righteous-
ness." Pray often with them, and for them, and remind them of
the inconceivable advantages attached to that exercise. Accustom
them to a punctual and reverential attendance at the house of
God : insist on the sanctification of the Sabbath by such a disposal
of time as is suitable to a day of rest and devotion. Survey them
with a vigilant and tender eye, checking every appearance of an
evil and depraved disposition the moment it springs up, and
encouraging the dawn of piety and virtue. By thus "training
them up in the way they should go," you may reasonably hope
that " when old they will not depart from it"
26o
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[VARIOUS.
HISTORY OUT OF OLD SONGS.
,— II.
DAYS BEFORE BOOKS. — In the old ignorant times, before women
were readers, history was handed down from mother to daughter,
&c., and William of Malmesbury picked up his history, from the
time of Venerable Bede to his time, out of old songs, for there was
no writer in England from Bede to him. So my nurse had the
history from the Conquest down to Charles I., in ballad. Before
printing, old wives' tales were ingenious ; and since printing came
in fashion, till a little before the civil wars, the ordinary sort of
people were not taught to read. Now-a-days, books are common,
and most of the poor people understand letters; and the many
good books and variety of turns of affairs, have put all the old
fables out of doors. And the divine art of printing and gun-
powder have frightened away Robin Goodfellow and the fairies. —
AUBREY.
A LESSON FOR PRETENDERS. — I remember when I was in the
Low Countries, and lived with Sir John Ogle, at Utrecht, the reply
of that valiant gentleman, Colonel Edmunds, to a countryman
of his newly come out of Scotland, went current; who, desiring
entertainment of him, told him : — " My lord, his father, and such
VARIOUS ] APOPHTHEGMS. 261
knights and gentlemen, his cousins and kinsmen, were in good
health." Quoth Colonel Edmunds, " Gentlemen," (to his friends
by,) "believe not one word he says; my father is but a poor
baker of Edinburgh, and works hard for his living, whom this
knave would make a lord, to curry favour with me, and make ye
believe I am a great man born." — PEACHAM. Complete Gentle-
man, 1627.
MR PITT. — On his "Additional Force Bill," in 1805, Mr Pitt
had a meeting of country gentlemen — militia colonels, we think —
to consider the measure. One of these gentlemen objected to a
clause for calling out the force, which he insisted should not be
done except in case of actual invasion. Pitt replied, " that would
be too late;" but the gentleman still insisted on the case of actual
invasion. By and by, they came to another clause, to render the
force more disposable; the same gentleman objected again, and
insisted very warmly that he never would consent to its being sent
out of England — " except, I suppose," rejoined Pitt, " in case of actual
invasion." — Quarterly Review.
TENDERNESS OF CONSCIENCE. — Thomas Curson, born in Allhal-
lows, Lombard Street, armourer, dwelt without Bishopsgate. It hap-
pened that a stage-player borrowed a rusty musket, which had lain
long leger in his shop: now though his part were comical, he
therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, killing one of the standers
by, the gun casually going off on the stage, which he suspected
not to be charged. Oh, the difference of divers men in the tender-
ness of their consciences ! some are scarce touched with a wound,
whilst others are wounded with a touch therein. This poor
armourer was highly afflicted therewith, though done against his
will, yea, without his knowledge, in his absence, by another, out of
mere chance. Hereupon he resolved to give all his estate to pious
uses: no sooner had he gotten a round sum, but presently he
posted with it in his apron to the Court of Aldermen, and was in
pain till by their direction he had settled it for the relief of the poor
in his own and other parishes, and disposed of some hundreds of
pounds accordingly, as I am credibly informed by the then church-
wardens of the said parish. Thus as he conceived himself casually
262 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
(though at a great distance) to have occasioned the death of one,
he was the immediate and direct cause of giving a comfortable
living to many. — FULLER.
TRANSLATION. — Shakesperewas godfather to one of Ben Jonson's
children, and after the christening, being in a deep study, Jonson
came to cheer him up, and asked him why he was so melancholy.
"No, faith, Ben (says he,) not I, but I have been considering
a great while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow
upon my god-child, and I am resolved at last." "I pr'ythee,
what?" says he. "I'faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a dozen good
Latten Spoons, and thou shalt translate them." — L'ESTRANGE.
Anecdotes and Traditions (a volume published by the Camden Society.}
KEEP TO YOUR CALLING. — Bishop Grosteste of Lincoln told his
brother, who asked him to make him a great man — " Brother,"
said he, "if your plough is broken, I'll pay the mending of it;
or if an ox is dead, I '11 pay for another; but a ploughman I found
you, and a ploughman I '11 leave you." — AUBREY.
CONSCIENCE.: — A stranger came recommended to a merchant's
house at Lubeck. He was hospitably received; but, the house
being full, he was lodged at night in an apartment handsomely
furnished, but not often used. There was nothing that struck him
particularly in the room when left alone, till he happened to cast
his eyes on a picture which immediately arrested his attention.
It was a single head ; but there was something so uncommon, so
frightful and unearthly in its expression, though by no means
ugly, that he found himself irresistibly attracted to look at it.
In fact he could not tear himself from the fascination of this por-
trait, till his imagination was filled by it, and his rest broken.
He retired to bed, dreamed, and awoke from time to time with
the head glaring on him. In the morning his host saw by his
looks that he had slept ill, and inquired the cause, which was told.
The master of the house was much vexed, and said that the
picture ought to have been removed, that it was an oversight,
and that it always was removed when the chamber was used. The
picture, he said, was, indeed, terrible to every one; but it was so
fine, and had come into the family in so curious a way, that he
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 263
could not make up his mind to part with it, or to destroy it
The story of it was this : — " My father," said he, " was at Ham-
burgh on business, and, whilst dining at a coffee-house, he observed
a young man of a remarkable appearance enter, seat himself alone
in a corner, and commence a solitary meal. His countenance
bespoke the extreme of mental distress, and every now and then
he turned his head quickly round as if he heard something, then
shudder, grow pale, and go on with his meal after an effort as
before. My father saw this same man at the same place for two
or three successive days, and at length became so much interested
about him that he spoke to him. The address was not repulsed,
and the stranger seemed to find some comfort from the tone of
sympathy and kindness which my father used. He was an Italian,
well informed, poor, but not destitute, and living economically
upon the profits of his art as a painter. Their intimacy increased,
and at length the Italian, seeing my father's involuntary emotion
at his convulsive turnings and shudderings, which continued as
formerly, interrupting their conversation from time to time, told
him his story. He was a native of Rome, and had lived in
some familiarity with, and been much patronised by, a young
nobleman ; but upon some slight occasion they had fallen out,
and his patron, besides using many reproachful expressions, had
struck him. The painter brooded over the disgrace of the blow.
He -could not challenge the nobleman, on account of his rank; he
therefore watched for an opportunity, and assassinated him. Of
course he fled from his country, and finally had reached Ham-
burgh. He had not, however, passed many weeks from the
night of the murder, before, one day in the crowded street, he
heard his name called by a voice familiar to him; he turned short
round, and saw the face of his victim looking at him with a fixed
eye. From that moment he had no peace; at all hours, in all
places, and amidst all companies, however engaged he might be,
he heard the voice, and could never help looking round; and,
whenever he so looked round, he always encountered the same
face staring close upon him. At last, in a mood of desperation,
he had fixed himself face to face, and eye to eye, and deliberately
264 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
drawn the phantom visage as it glared upon him ; and this was the
picture so drawn. The Italian said he had struggled long, but
life was a burden which he could now no longer bear; and he
was resolved, when he had made money enough to return to
Rome, to surrender himself to justice, and expiate his crime on
the scaffold. He gave the finished picture to my father, in return
for the kindness which he had shown him." — COLERIDGE. Table
Talk.
KING JAMES mounted his horse one time, who formerly used to
be very sober and quiet, but then began to bound and prance.
" The de'il o' my saul, sirrah," says he, " an you be not quiet I 'se
send you to the five hundred kings in the lower House of Com-
mons ; they '11 quickly tame you." — L'ESTRANGE.
THE SAFEST LENDERS. — The Lord Bacon was wont to com-
mend the advice of the plain old man at Buxton, that sold
besoms; a proud lazy young fellow came to him for a besom
upon trust : to whom the old man said, " Friend, hast thou no
money1? borrow of thy back, and borrow of thy belly; they'll
ne'er ask thee again — I shall be dunning thee every day." —
BACON.
MEMORY. — Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most
delicate and frail; it is the first of our faculties that age invades.
Seneca, the father, the rhetorician, confesseth of himself, he had
a miraculous one, not only to receive, but to hold. 1 myself
could, in my youth, have repeated all that ever I had made, and
so continued till I was past forty; since, it is much decayed in me.
Yet I can repeat whole books that I have read, and poems of
some selected friends, which I have liked to charge my memory
with. It was wont to be faithful to me, but shaken with age now,
and sloth, which weakens the strongest abilities, it may perform
somewhat, but cannot promise much. By exercise it is to be
made better, and serviceable. Whatsoever I pawned with it while
I was young and a boy, it offers me readily, and without stops;
but what I trust to it now, or have done of later years, it lays up
more negligently, and oftentimes loses; so that I receive mine
own (though frequently called for) as if it were new and borrowed.
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 26$
Nor do I always find presently from it what I seek; but while I
am doing another thing, that I laboured for will come : and what
1 sought with trouble, will offer itself when I am quiet. Now in
some men I have found it as happy as nature, who, whatsoever
they read or pen, they can say without book presently; as if they
did then write in their mind. And it is more a wonder in such as
have a swift style, for their memories are commonly slowest ; such
as torture their writings, and go into council for every word, must
needs fix somewhat, and make it their own at last, though but
through their own vexation. — BEN JONSON.
TREASON. — John Thelwall had something very good about him.
We were once sitting in a beautiful recess in the Quantocks, when
I said to him, " Citizen John, this is a fine place to talk treason
in!" " Nay, citizen Samuel," replied he, " it is rather a place to
make a man forget that there is any necessity for treason ! " — COLE-
RIDGE. Table-Talk.
DANGER. — A notorious rogue being brought to the bar, and
knowing his case to be desperate, instead of pleading, he took to
himself the liberty of jesting, and thus said, " I charge you, in the
king's name, to seize and take away that man (meaning the judge)
in the red gown, for I go in danger because of him." — BACON.
BEGGING A FOOL. — [One of the abuses of old times was that
the king, who had the custody of lunatics, intrusted the keeping of
the .rich unfortunates to avaricious courtiers, who thus acquired
additional means of private extravagance.]
The Lord North begged old Bladwell for a fool, (though he
could never prove him so,) and having him in his custody as a
lunatic, he carried him to a gentleman's house one day that was a
neighbour. The Lord North and the gentleman retired a while to
private discourse, and left Bladwell in the dining-room, which was
hung with a fair hanging. Bladwell walked up and down, and
viewing the imagery spied a fool at last in the hanging, and with-
out delay draws his knife, flies at the fool, cuts him clean out, and
lays him on the floor. My lord and the gentleman coming in
again, and finding the tapestry thus defaced, he asks Bladwell
what he meant by such a rude, uncivil act; he answered, " Sir,
266 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
be content, I have rather done you a courtesy than a wrong, for
if ever my Lord North had seen the fool there, he would have
begged him, and so you might have lost your whole suit."
— L'EsTRANGE. Anecdotes and Traditions.
TOBACCO. — Sir Walter Raleigh was the first that brought tobacco
into England, and into fashion. In our part of North Wilts —
Malmesbury hundred — it came first into fashion by Sir Walter
Long. They had first silver pipes. The ordinary sort made use
of a walnut-shell and a straw. I have heard my grandfather Lyte
say that one pipe was handed from man to man round the table.
Sir W. R., standing in a stand at Sir Ro. Poyntz's park at Acton,
took a pipe of tobacco, which made the ladies quit it till he had
done. Within these thirty-five years 'twas scandalous for a divine
to take tobacco. It was sold then for its weight in silver. I have
heard some of our old yeomen neighbours say, that when they
went to Malmesbury or Chippenham market, they culled out their
biggest shillings to lay in the scales against the tobacco ; now the
customs of it are the greatest his Majesty hath. — AUBREY.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. — I received one morning a message
from poor Goldsmith that hfe was in great distress, and, as it was
not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to
him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to
come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was
dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his
rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he
had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira
and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he
would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he
might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready
for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and
saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return; and hav-
ing gone to a bookseller, sold* it for sixty pounds. I brought
Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without
rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill.
— JOHNSON, in Boswell.
CANDOUR. — Marivaux, a celebrated French writer of romances,
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS, 267
who flourished in the first half of the last century, having one day
met with a sturdy beggar, who asked charity of him, he replied,
" My good friend, strong and stout as you are, it is a shame that
you do not go to work." " Ah, master," said the beggar, " if you
did but know how lazy I am." " Well," replied Marivaux, " I see
thou art an honest fellow, here is half-a-crown for you." — SEWARD'S
Anecdotes.
AMBITION. — Cineas was an excellent orator and statesman, and
principal friend and counsellor to Pyrrhus; and falling in inward
talk with him, and discerning the king's endless ambition, Pyrrhus
opened himself unto him, that he intended first a war upon Italy,
and hoped to achieve it. Cineas asked him, " Sir, what will you
do then?" "Then," said he, "we will attempt Sicily." Cineas
said, " Well, sir, what then 1" Said Pyrrhus, " If the gods favour
us, we may conquer Africa and Carthage." "What then, sir?"
said Cineas. " Nay, then," said Pyrrhus, " we may take our rest,
and sacrifice and feast every day, and make merry with our
friends." "Alas! sir," said Cineas, "may we not do so now,
without all this ado V — BACON.
OBSERVATION. — A dervise was journeying alone in a desert,
when two merchants suddenly met him: "You have lost a camel,"
said he to the merchants. "Indeed we have," they replied.
" Was he not blind in his right eye, and lame in his left leg1?" said
the dervise. " He was," replied the merchants. "Had he not
lost a front tooth?" said the dervise. " He had," rejoined the
merchants. " And was he not loaded with honey on one side,
and wheat on the other ?" " Most certainly he was," they replied;
" and as you have seen him so lately, and marked him so particu-
larly, you can, in all probability, conduct us unto him." "My
friends," said the dervise, " I have never seen your camel, nor ever
heard of him, but from you." " A pretty story, truly," said the
merchants ; " but where are the jewels which formed a part of his
cargo?" " I have neither seen your camel, nor your jewels," re-
peated the dervise. On this they seized his person, and forth-
with hurried him before the cadi, where, on the strictest search,
nothing could be found upon him, nor could any evidence what-
268 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G. CAMPBELL.
ever be adduced to convict him, either of falsehood or of theft.
They then were about to proceed against him as a sorcerer^
when the dervise with great calmness thus addressed the court: —
"I have been much amused with your surprise, and own that there
has been some ground for your suspicions ; but I have lived long,
and alone ; and I can find ample scope for observation, even in a
desert. I knew that I had crossed the track of a camel that had
strayed from its owner, because I saw no mark of any human foot-
step on the same route ; I knew that the animal was blind in one
eye, because it had cropped the herbage only on one side of its
path ; and I perceived that it was lame in one leg, from the faint
impression which that particular foot had produced upon the
sand; I concluded the animal had lost one tooth, because, wher-
ever it had grazed, a small tuft of herbage had been left uninjured
in the centre of its bite. As to that which formed the burden of
the beast, the busy ants informed me that it was corn on the one
side, and the clustering flies that it was honey on the other." —
COLTON. Lacon.
45.— I^
G. CAMPBELL.
[THE following illustration of the inferiority in subject-matter and style of
the Koran of Mohammed, as compared with the Bible, is not given as a paper
for Sunday reading, but as a specimen of a book which contains a number of
similar stories, in connexion, indeed, with many things that are in a higher
spirit. The passage which we subjoin occurs in a note to Dr George Camp-
bell's "Dissertation on Miracles." This learned Scotch divine was Principal of
Marischal College, Aberdeen. He was the author also of a valuable work,
*' The Philosophy of Rhetoric." George Campbell was born in 1709, and died
in 1796.]
I hardly think that we can have a more striking proof of the
prejudices of modern infidels, than in their comparing this motley
composition, the Koran, to the writings of the Old and the New
Testament. Let the reader but take the trouble to peruse the
history of Joseph by Mohammed, which is the subject of a very long
G.CAMPBELL.] THE KORAN. 269
chapter, and to compare it with the account of that patriarch
given by Moses, and if he doth not perceive at once the immense
inferiority of the former, I shall never, for my part, undertake by
argument to convince him of it. To me it appears even almost
incredible, that the most beautiful and most affecting passages of
Holy Writ should have been so wretchedly disfigured by a writer
whose intention, we are certain, was not to burlesque them. But
that every reader may be qualified to form some notion of this
miracle of a book, I subjoin a specimen of it, from the chapter of
the Ant: where we are informed particularly of the' cause of the
visit which the queen of Sheba (there called Saba) made to
Solomon, and of the occasion of her conversion from idolatry.
I have not selected this passage on account of any special futility
to be found in it, for the like absurdities may be observed in every
page of the performance ; but I have selected it because it is short,
and because it contains a distinct story, which bears some relation
to a passage of Scripture. I use Mr Sale's version, which is the
latest, and the most approved, omitting only, for the sake of
brevity, such supplementary expressions as have been, without
necessity, inserted by the translator : —
"Solomon was David's heir; and he said, 'O men, we have
been taught the speech of birds, and have had all things bestowed
onus; this is manifest excellence.' And his armies were gathered
together to Solomon, consisting of genii, and men, and birds; and
they were led in distinct bands, until they came to the valley of
ants. An ant said, ' O ants, enter ye into your habitations, lest
Solomon and his army tread you under foot, and perceive it not.'
And he smiled, laughing at her words, and said, ' O Lord, excite
me, that I may be thankful for thy favour, wherewith thou hast fa-
voured me and my parents, and that I may do that which is right and
well pleasing to thee ; and introduce me through thy mercy, among
thy servants the righteous.' And he viewed the birds, and said,
' What is the reason that I see not the lapwing ? Is she absent 1
Verily I will chastise her with a severe chastisement, or I will put
her to death ; unless she bring me a just excuse.' And she tarried
not long, and said, 'I have viewed that which thou hast not viewed;
270 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [G. CAMPBELL.
and I come to thee from Saba with a certain piece of news. I
found a woman to reign over them, who is provided with every-
thing, and hath a magnificent throne. I found her and her people
to worship the sun, besides God ; and Satan hath prepared their
work for them, and hath turned them aside from the way, (where-
fore they are not directed,) lest they should worship God, who
bringeth to light that which is hidden in heaven and earth, and
knowing whatever they conceal, and whatever they discover. God !
there is no God but he ; the lord of the magnificent throne.' He
said, ' We shall see whether thou hast spoken the truth, or whether
thou art a liar. Go with this my letter, and cast it down to them ;
Then turn aside from them, and wait for their answer.' The queen
said, ' O nobles, verily an honourable letter hath been delivered to
me ; it is from Solomon, and this is the tenor thereof: In the name
of the most merciful God, rise not up against me: but come and
surrender yourselves to me.' She said, ' O nobles, advise me in my
business. I will not resolve on anything, till you be witnesses
hereof.' They answered, 'We are endued with strength, and endued
with great prowess in war; but the command appertaineth to thee:
see, therefore, what thou wilt command.' She said, 'Verily kings,
when they enter a city, waste the same, and abase the most power-
ful of the inhabitants thereof; and so will these do. But I will
send gifts to them, and will wait for what those who shall be sent
shall bring back.' And when the ambassador came to Solomon,
the prince said, 'Will ye present me with riches? Verily that
which God hath given me is better than what he hath given you :
but ye glory in your gifts. Return to your people. We will
surely come to them with forces which they shall not be able to
withstand ; and we will drive them out humbled, and they shall
be contemptible.' And Solomon said, ' O nobles, which of you
will bring me her throne, before they come and surrender them-
selves to me?' A terrible genius answered, 'I will bring it thee
before thou arise from thy place.' And one, with whom was the
knowledge of the Scripture, said, ' I will bring it to thee in the
twinkling of an eye.' And when Solomon saw it placed before
him, he said, ' This is a favour of my Lord, that he may make
G.CAMPBELL.] THE KORAN. 2JI
trial of me, whether I will be grateful, or whether I will be un-
grateful ; and he who is grateful, is grateful to his own advantage ;
but if any shall be ungrateful, verily my Lord is self-sufficient and
munificent.' And he said, ' Alter her throne, that she may not
know it, to the end we may see whether she be directed, or
whether she be of those who are not directed/ And when she
was come, it was said, ' Is thy throne like this V She answered as
though it were the same. And we have had knowledge bestowed
on us before this, and have been resigned. But that which she
worshipped besides God, had turned her aside, for she was of an
unbelieving people. It was said to her, ' Enter the palace.' And
when she saw it, she imagined it to be a great water, and she dis-
covered her legs. Solomon said, ' Verily this is a palace, evenly
floored with glass.' She said, ' O Lord, verily I have dealt un-
justly with my own soul; and I resign myself, together with
Solomon, to God, the Lord of all creatures.' "
Thus poverty of sentiment, monstrosity of invention, which
always betokens a distempered, not a rich imagination, and, in
respect of diction, the most turgid verbosity, so apt to be mis-
taken by persons of a vitiated taste for true sublimity, are the
genuine characteristics of the book. They appear almost in every
line. The very titles and epithets assigned to God are not exempt
from them. The Lord of the daybreak, the Lord of the magnifi-
cent throne, the King of the day of judgment, &c. They are
pompous and insignificant. If the language of the Koran, as the
Mohammedans pretend, is indeed the language of God, the
thoughts are but too evidently the thoughts of men. The reverse
of this is the character of the Bible. When God speaks to men,
it is reasonable to think that He addresses them in their own
language. In the Bible you will see nothing inflated, nothing
affected in the style. The words are human, but the sentiments
are divine. Accordingly, there is perhaps no book in the world,
as hath been often justly observed, which suffers less by a literal
translation into any other language.
272 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MACAULAT.
46. — gr Jf0fnts0it iwfr frb
MACAULAY.
[THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, born in 1800, was the son of Mr Zachary
Macaulay, a leader amongst that distinguished band to whom we owe the Abo-
lition of the Slave Trade. Mr T. B. Macaulay received his collegiate educa-
tion at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he acquired a great reputation, and
upon entering Parliament soon obtained a leading position amongst the ora-
tors of the most critical assembly in the world. He was subsequently ap-
pointed to a high legal office in India, and, after an absence from England of a
few years, returned to take up a distinguished place as a parliamentary speaker
in the House of Commons. In 1857 he was created a peer. Lord Macaulay's
writings have a wide popularity. His " Lays of Ancient Rome " are amongst
the most brilliant of modern poetical productions; his "Essays from the
Edinburgh Review," collected in three volumes, from that influential journal,
attained a success far higher than any other contributions to the periodical
works of our day. Of his "History of England," the first and second
volumes were published in 1849. The third and fourth volumes in 1855. The
fifth volume was a posthumous fragment. This work had a popular reception
almost unexampled. His style as a prose writer is distinguished from that of
all his contemporaries by its epigrammatic point. It is always clear and unin-
volved ; every sentence tells. But style alone would not command the admi-
ration which these writings excite, if they were not also full of matter. The
resources of the most extensive reading are here displayed without ostentation,
in the happiest illustrations and analogies. Lord Macaulay is certainly the
most attractive of modern English essayists and historians. He died Decem-
ber 20, 1859, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.]
Johnson grown old — Johnson in the fulness of his fame and in
the enjoyment of a competent fortune — is better known to us
than any other man in history. Everything about him ; his coat,
his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St Vitus's dance, his
rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly
marked his approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for
fish sauce and veal-pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for
tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious
practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel, his morning slum-
bers, his midnight disputations, his contortions, his mutterings, his
gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence,
his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestu-
ous rage, his queer inmates — old Mr Levett, and blind Mrs Wil-
liams, the cat Hodge, and the negro Frank — all are as familiar to
us as the objects by which we have been surrounded from child-
MACAULAY.] DR JOHNSON AND HIS TIMES. 273
hood. But we have no minute information respecting those
years of Johnson's life during which his character and his man-
ners became immutably fixed. We know him, not as he was
known to the men of his own generation, but as he was known to
men whose father he might have been. That celebrated club
of which he was the most distinguished member contained few
persons who could remember a time when his fame was not fully
established, and his habits completely formed. He had made
himself a name in literature while Reynolds and the Wartons were
still boys. He was about twenty years older than Burke, Gold-
smith, and Gerard Hamilton ; about thirty years older than Gib-
bon, Beauclerk, and Langton ; and about forty years older than
Lord Stowell, Sir William Jones, and Windham. Boswell and Mrs
Thrale, the two writers from whom we derive most of our know-
ledge respecting him, never saw him till long after he was fifty years
old, till most of his great works had become classical, and till the
pension bestowed on him by the Crown had placed him above
poverty. Of those eminent men who were his most intimate as-
sociates, towards the close of his life, the only one, as far as we
remember, who knew him during the first ten or twelve years of
his residence in the capital, was David Garrick; and it does not
appear that, during those years, David Garrick saw much of his
fellow-townsman.
Johnson came up to London precisely at the time when the
condition of a man of letters was most miserable and degraded.
It was a dark night between two sunny days. The age of patron-
age had passed away. The age of general curiosity and intelli-
gence had not arrived. The number of readers is at present so
great, that a popular author may subsist in comfort and opulence
on the profits of his works. In the reigns of William the Third,
of Anne, and of George the First, even such men as Congreve and
Addison would scarcely have been able to live like gentlemen by
the mere sale of their writings. But the deficiency of the natural
demand for literature was, at the close of the seventeenth and at the
beginning of the eighteenth century, more than made up by artificial
encouragement, by a vast system of bounties and premiums. There
was perhaps never a time at which the rewards of literary merit were
VOL. i. s
274 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MACAULAY.
so splendid, at which men who could write well found such easy
admittance into the most distinguished society, and to the highest
honours of the state. The chiefs of both the great parties into which
the kingdom was divided patronised literature with emulous munifi-
cence. Congreve, when he had scarcely attained his majority, was
rewarded for his first comedy with places which made him indepen-
dent for life. Smith, though his "Hippolytus and Phaedra" failed,
would have been consoled with three hundred a-year but for his own
folly. Rowe was not only Poet-Laureate, but also Land Surveyor
of the Customs in the Port of London, Clerk of the Council to
the Prince of Wales, and Secretary of the Presentations to the
Lord Chancellor. Hughes was Secretary to the Commissioners
of the Peace. Ambrose Philips was Judge of the Prerogative
Court in Ireland. Locke was Commissioner of Appeals and of
the Board of Trade.- Newton was Master of the Mint. Stepney
and Prior were employed in embassies of high dignity and import-
ance. Gay, who commenced life as apprentice to a silk mercer,
became a Secretary of Legation at five-and-twenty. It was to a
poem on the Death of Charles the Second, and to the City and
Country Mouse, that Montague owed his introduction into public
life, his earldom, his garter, and his Auditorship of the Exchequer.
Swift, but for the unconquerable prejudice of the queen, would
have been a bishop. Oxford, with his white staff in his hand,
passed through the crowd of his suitors to welcome Parnell, when
that ingenious writer deserted the Whigs. Steele was a Commis-
sioner of Stamps and a Member of Parliament. Arthur Main-
waring was a Commissioner of the Customs, and Auditor of the
Imprest. Tickell was Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland.
Addison was Secretary of State.
This liberal patronage was brought into fashion, as it seems, by
the magnificent Dorset, almost the only noble versifier in the
court of Charles the Second who possessed talents for composi-
tion which were independent of the aid of a coronet. Montague
owed his elevation to the favour of Dorset, and imitated, through
the whole course of his life, the liberality to which he was himself
so greatly indebted. The Tory leaders, Harley and Bolingbroke
MACAULAY] DR JOHNSON AND HIS TIMES. 275
in particular, vied with the chiefs of the Whig party in zeal for the
encouragement of letters. But soon after the accession of the
House of Hanover a change took place. The supreme power
passed to a man who cared little for poetry or eloquence. The
importance of the House of Commons was constantly on the
increase. The government was under the necessity of bartering,
for Parliamentary support, much of that patronage which had
been employed in fostering literary merit; and Walpole was by
no means inclined to devote any part of the fund of corruption to
purposes which he considered as idle. He had eminent talents
for government and for debate. But he had paid little attention
to books, and felt little respect for authors. One of the coarse
jokes of his friend, Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, was far more
pleasing to him than Thomson's " Seasons," or Richardon s
"Pamela." He had observed that some of the distinguished
writers whom the favour of Halifax had turned into statesmen had
been mere incumbrances to their party, dawdlers in office, and
mutes in Parliament. During the whole course of his administra-
tion, therefore, he scarcely befriended a single man of genius.
The best writers of the age gave all their support to the opposi-
tion, and contributed to excite that discontent which, after plung-
ing the nation into a foolish and unjust war, overthrew the minister
to make room for men less able and equally immoral. The oppo-
sition could reward its eulogists with little more than promises and
caresses. St James's would give nothing; Leicester House had
nothing to give.
Thus, at the time when Johnson commenced his literary career,
a writer had little to hope from the patronage of powerful indivi-
duals. The patronage of the public did not yet furnish the means
of comfortable subsistence. The prices paid by booksellers to
authors were so low that a man of considerable talents and unre-
mitting industry could do little more than provide for the day
which was passing over him. The lean kine had eaten up the fat
kine. The thin and withered ears had devoured the good ears.
The season of rich harvests was over, and the period of famine
had begun. All that is squalid and miserable might now be
276 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MACAULAY.
summed up in the word poet. That word denoted a creature
dressed like a scarecrow, familiar with compters and spunging-
houses, and perfectly qualified to decide on the comparative merits
of the Common Side in the King's Bench Prison, and of Mount
Scoundrel in the Fleet. Even the poorest pitied him : and they
well might pity him; for, if their condition was equally abject,
their aspirings were not equally high, nor their sense of insult
equally acute. To lodge in a garret up four pair of stairs, to dine
in a cellar among footmen out of place, to translate ten hours a
clay for the wages of a ditcher, to be hunted by bailiffs from one
haunt of beggary and pestilence to another, — from Grub Street to
St George's Fields, and from St George's Fields to the alleys
behind St Martin's Church ; to sleep on a bulk in June, and amidst
the ashes of a glass-house in December; to die in an hospital and
be buried in a parish vault, — was the fate of more than one writer
who, if he had lived thirty years earlier, would have been admitted
to the sittings of the Kit-cat or Scriblerus club, would have sat in
Parliament, and would have been intrusted with embassies to the
High Allies — who, if he had lived in our time, would have found
encouragement scarcely less munificent in Albemarle Street or in
Paternoster Row.
As every climate has its peculiar diseases, so every walk of life
has its peculiar temptations. The literary character, assuredly,
has always had its share of faults, vanity, jealousy, morbid sensi-
bility. To these faults were now superadded the faults which are
commonly found in men whose livelihood is precarious, and whose
principles are exposed to the trial of severe distress. All the
vices of the gambler and of the beggar were blended with those
of the author. The prizes in the wretched lottery of book-making
were scarcely less ruinous than the blanks. If good fortune came,
it came in such a manner that it was almost certain to be abused.
After months of starvation and despair, a full third night or well-
received dedication filled the pocket of the lean, ragged, unwashed
poet with guineas. He hastened to enjoy those luxuries with
the images of which his mind had been haunted while he was
sleeping among the .cinders and eating potatoes at the Irish ordi-
MACAULAY.] DR JOHNSON AND HIS TIMES. 277
nary in Shoe Lane. A week of taverns soon qualified him for an-
other year of night-cellars. Such was the life of Savage, of Boyce,
and of a crowd of others. Sometimes blazing in gold-laced hats
and waistcoats ; sometimes lying in bed because their coats had
gone to pieces, or wearing paper cravats because their linen was
in pawn ; sometimes drinking champagne and tokay with Betty
Careless ; sometimes standing at the window of an eating-house
in Porridge Island, to snuff up the scent of what they could not
afford to taste; — they knew luxury; they knew beggary; but they
never knew comfort. These men were irreclaimable. They
looked on a regular and frugal life with the same aversion which
an old gipsy or a Mohawk hunter feels for a stationary abode, and
for the restraints and securities of civilised communities. They
were as untamable, as much wedded to their desolate freedom,
as the wild ass. They could no more be broken into the offices
of social man than the unicorn could be trained to serve and
abide by the crib. It was well if they did not, like beasts of a
still fiercer race, tear the hands which ministered to their neces-
sities. To assist them was impossible; and the most benevolent
of mankind at length became weary of giving relief which was dis-
sipated with the wildest profusion as soon as it had been received.
If a sum was bestowed on the wretched adventurer, such as, pro-
perly husbanded, might have supplied him for six months, it was
instantly spent in strange freaks of sensuality; and before forty-
eight hours had elapsed, the poet was again pestering all his
acquaintance for twopence to get a plate of shin of beef at a
subterraneous cook-shop. If his friends gave him an asylum in
their houses, those houses were forthwith turned into bagnios and
taverns. All order was destroyed; all business was suspended.
The most good-natured host began to repent of his eagerness to
serve a man of genius in distress, when he heard his guest roaring
for fresh punch at five o'clock in the morning.
A few eminent writers were more fortunate. Pope had been
raised above poverty by the active patronage which, in his youth,
both the great political parties had extended to his Homer.
Young had received the only pension ever bestowed, to the best of
2y8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MACAULAY.
our recollection, by Sir Robert Walpole, as the reward of mere lite-
rary merit. One or two of the many poets who attached themselves
to the Opposition, Thomson in particular, and Mallett, obtained,
after much severe suffering, the means of subsistence from their
political friends. Richardson, like a man of sense, kept his shop,
and his shop kept him, which his novels, admirable as they are,
would scarcely have done. But nothing could be more deplorable
than the state even of the ablest men, who at that time depended
for subsistence on their writings. Johnson, Collins, Fielding, and
Thomson were certainly four of the most distinguished persons
that England produced during the eighteenth century. It is well
known that they were all four arrested for debt.
Into calamities and difficulties such as these Johnson plunged
in his twenty-eighth year. From that time till he was three or
four and fifty, we have little information respecting him — little,
we mean, compared with the full and accurate information which
we possess respecting his proceedings and habits towards the close
of his life. He emerged %'at length from cock-lofts and sixpenny
ordinaries into the society of the polished and the opulent. His
fame was established. A pension sufficient for his wants had
been conferred on him ; and he came forth to astonish a genera-
tion with which he had almost as little in common as with French-
men or Spaniards.
In his early years he had occasionally seen the great; but he
had seen them as a beggar. He now came amongst them as a
companion. The demand for amusement and instruction had,
during the course of twenty years, been gradually increasing.
The price of literary labour had risen ; and those rising men of
letters with whom Johnson was henceforth to associate were for
the most part persons widely different from those who had walked
about with him all night in the streets for want of a lodging.
Burke, Robertson, the Wartons, Gray, Mason, Gibbon, Adam
Smith, Beattie, Sir William Jones, Goldsmith, and Churchill,
were the most distinguished writers of what may be called the
second generation of the Johnsonian age. Of these men Churchill
was the only one in whom we can trace the stronger linea-
MACAULAY.] DR JOHNSON AND HIS TIMES. 279
ments of that character which, when Johnson first came up to
London, was common among authors. Of the rest, scarcely any
had felt the pressure of severe poverty. Almost all had been early
admitted into the most respectable society on an equal footing.
They were men of quite a different species from the dependants
of Curll and Osborne.
Johnson came among them the solitary specimen of a past age,
the last survivor of the genuine race of Grub Street hacks ; the
last of that generation of authors whose abject misery, and whose
dissolute manners had furnished inexhaustible matter to the
satirical genius of Pope. From nature he had received an un-
couth figure, a diseased constitution, and an irritable temper.
The manner in which the earlier years of his manhood had been
passed had given to his demeanour, and even to his moral char-
acter, some peculiarities appalling to the civilised beings who
were the companions of his old age. The perverse irregularity of
his hours, the slovenliness of his person, his fits of strenuous
exertion, interrupted by long intervals of sluggishness, his strange
abstinence and his equally strange voracity, his active benevo-
lence, contrasted with the constant rudeness and the occasional
ferocity of his manners in society, made him, in the opinion of
those with whom he lived during the last twenty years of his life,
a complete original. An original he was, undoubtedly, in some
respects ; but, if we possessed full information concerning those
who shared his early hardships, we should probably find that
what we call his singularities of manner were, for the most part,
failings which he had in common with the class to which he be-
longed. He ate at Streatham Park as he had been used to eat
behind the screen at St John's Gate, when he was ashamed to show
his ragged clothes. He ate as it was natural that a man should
eat, who, during a great part of his life, had passed the morning
in doubt whether he should have food for the afternoon. The
habits of his early life had accustomed him to bear privation with
fortitude, but not to taste pleasure with moderation. He could
fast; but, when he did not fast, he tore his dinner like a famished
wolf, with the veins swelling on his forehead, and the perspiration
230 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [MACAULAY,
running down his cheeks. He scarcely ever took wine; but,
when he drank it, he drank it greedily and in large tumblers.
These were, in fact, mitigated symptoms of that same moral
disease which raged with such deadly malignity in his friends,
Savage and Boyce. The roughness and violence which he showed
in society were to be expected from a man whose temper, not
naturally gentle, had been long tried by the bitterest calamities, by
the want of meat, of fire, and of clothes, by the importunity of
creditors, by the insolence of booksellers, by the derision of fools,
by the insincerity of patrons, by that bread which is the bitterest
of all food, by those stairs which are the most toilsome of all
paths, by that deferred hope which makes the heart sick. Through
all these things the ill-dressed, coarse, ungainly pedant had
struggled manfully up to eminence and command. It was
natural that, in the exercise of his power, he should be " eo im-
mitior, quia toleraverat;" that, though his heart was undoubtedly
generous and humane, his demeanour in society should be harsh
and despotic. For severe distress he had sympathy, and not
only sympathy, but munificent relief. But for the suffering which
a harsh world inflicts upon a delicate mind he had no pity; for it
was a kind of suffering which he could scarcely conceive. He
would carry home on his shoulders a sick and starving girl from
the streets. He turned his house into a place of refuge for a
crowd of wretched old creatures who could find no other asylum :
nor could all their peevishness and ingratitude weary out his
benevolence. But the pangs of wounded vanity seemed to him
ridiculous ; and he scarcely felt sufficient compassion even for the
pangs of wounded affection. He had seen and felt so much of
sharp misery, that he was not affected by paltry vexations; and he
seemed to think that everybody ought to be as much hardened
to those vexations as himself. He was angry with Boswell for
complaining of a headache, with Mrs Thrale for grumbling about
the dust on the road or the smell of the kitchen. These were, in
his phrase, "foppish lamentations," which people ought to be
ashamed to utter in a world so full of sin and sorrow. Goldsmith,
crying because the " Good-natured Man " had failed, inspired him
POPE.] I MIT A T1ON OF HORA CE. 281
with no pity. Though his own health was not good, he detested
and despised valetudinarians. Pecuniary losses, unless they re-
duced the loser absolutely to beggary, moved him very little.
People whose hearts had been softened by prosperity might weep,
he said, for such events ; but all that could be expected of a plain
man was not to laugh. He was not much moved even by the
spectacle of Lady Tavistock dying of a broken heart for the loss
of her lord. Such grief he considered as a luxury reserved for the
idle and the wealthy. A washerwoman, left a widow with nine
small children, would not have sobbed herself to death.
A person who troubled himself so little about small or sentimen-
tal grievances was not likely to be very attentive to the feelings of
others in the ordinary intercourse of society. He could not under-
stand how a sarcasm or a reprimand could make any man really
unhappy. " My dear doctor," said he to Goldsmith, " what harm
does it do to a man to call him Holofernes ? " " Pooh, ma'am,"
he exclaimed to Mrs Carter, "who is the worse for being talked of
uncharitably?" Politeness has been well defined as benevolence
in small things. Johnson was impolite, not because he wanted
benevolence, but because small things appeared smaller to him
than to people who had never known what it was to live for four-
pence-halfpenny a day.
47. — Jfmxta&rtt jof
POPE.
[THERE was a controversy going on some twenty years ago whether Pope was
a poet. He was not a poet in the sense in which we speak of Spenser, or
Dante, or Milton ; but, unless we narrow the realms of poetry somewhat
strangely, the author of the most pointed and dazzling satire, conveyed in the
most harmonious verse, must take his rank amongst the great masters. Are the
portraits of Titian or Vandyke not works of art, because they have not the high
imagination of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel or the Cartoons ? Alexander
Pope was born in 1688; died in 1744.
What and how great, the virtue and the art
To live on little with a cheerful heart;
282 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Pore.
(A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine,)
Let }s talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from sound philosophy aside;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.
Here Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools,
But strong in sense, and wise without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercise ! (he thus began)
Then scorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll' d abroad,
Or fish denied, (the river yet unthaw'd,)
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.
Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will choose a pheasant still before a hen ;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of carps and mullets why prefer the great,
(Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat,)
Yet for small turbots such esteem profess?
Because God made these large, the other less.
Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued,
Cries, " Send me, gods ! a whole hog barbecued ! "
Oh, blast it, south winds! till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.
By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think,
If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink?
When the tired glutton labours through a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat,
He calls for something bitter, something sour,
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor;
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives, still we see;
Thus much is left of old simplicity !
The robin-redbreast till of late had rest,
And children sacred held a martin's nest,
POPE.] IMITATION OF HORACE. 283
Till beccaficos sold so dev'lish dear
To one that was, or would have been, a peer.
Let me extol a cat, on oysters fed,
I '11 have a party at the Bedford Head;
Or even to crack live crawfish recommend ;
I 'd never doubt at court to make a friend.
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other:
Between excess and famine lies a mean —
Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean.
Avidien, or his wife (no matter which,
For him you call a dog, and her a bitch ;)
Sell their presented partridges, and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots :
One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on some lucky day (as when they found
A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown'd,)
At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,
Is what two souls so generous cannot bear :
Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart,
But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.
He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this side, nor on that ;
Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay,
Swears like Albutius, a good cook away,
Nor lets, like Naevius, every error pass,
The musty wine, foul cloth, and greasy glass.
Now hear what blessings temperance can bring;
(Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing :)
First, Health : the stomach cramm'd, from every dish,
A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one intestine war,
Remembers oft the schoolboy's simple fare,
The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air.
284 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [POPE.
How pale, each worshipful and reverend guest
Rise from a clergy or a city feast !
What life in all that ample body, say?
What heavenly particle inspires the clay?
The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines
To seem but mortal, even in sound divines.
On morning wings how active springs the mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind !
How easy every labour it pursues !
How coming to the poet every muse !
Not but we may exceed, some holy time,
Or tire in search of truth, or search of rhyme ;
111 health some just indulgence may engage ;
And more the sickness of long life, old age;
For fainting age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemperate youth the vessel drains?
Our fathers praised rank ven'son. You suppose,
Perhaps, young men, our fathers had no nose.
Not so : a buck was then a week's repast,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last;
More pleased to keep it till their friends could come,
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in those good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb pies or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he the voice of fame to hear,
That sweetest music to an honest ear;
(For faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,
The world's good word is better than a song,)
Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham pie
Are no rewards for want and infamy !
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself:
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,
Think how posterity will treat thy name
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.
POPE.] IMITATION OF HORACE. 285
" Right," cries his lordship, " for a rogue in need
To have a taste is insolence indeed :
In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state,
My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray,
And shine that superfluity away.
Oh, impudence of wealth ! with all thy store,
How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall :
Or to thy country let that heap be lent,
As M o's was, but not at five per cent.
Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
And who stands safest? tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in pufFd prosperity,
Or blest with little, whose preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?
Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought,
And always thinks the very thing he ought :
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And, as I love, would imitate the man.
In South-Sea days not happier, when surmised
The lord of thousands, than if now excised;
In forests planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On broccoli and mutton, round the year;
But ancient friends (though poor, or out of play)
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords :
To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down,
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own :
From yon old walnut-tree a shower shall fall;
And grapes, long lingering on my only wall;
286 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [POPE
And figs from standard and espalier join;
The devil is in you if you cannot dine :
Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have place;)
And, what 's more rare, a poet shall say grace.
Fortune not much of humbling me can boast:
Though double tax'd, how little have I lost!
My life's amusements have been just the same,
Before and after standing armies came.
My lands are sold, my father's house is gone ;
I '11 hire another's 1 is not that my own,
And yours, my friends ! through whose free opening gate
None comes too early, none departs too late ;
(For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.)
" Pray Heaven it last !" cries Swift, " as you 'go on;
I wish to God this house had been your own :
Pity! to build, without a son or wife;
Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."
Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon ?
What's property ^ dear Swift ! you see it alter
From you to me, from me to Peter Walter;
Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir;
Or, in pure equity, (the case not clear,)
The Chancery takes your rent for twenty year:
At best, it falls to some ungracious son,
Who cries, " My father 's damn'd, and all 's my own."
Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby lord;
And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham's delight,
Slides to a scrivener or a city knight.
Let lands and houses have what lords they will,
Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.
HALLAM.] CRITICISM ON DON Q VIXO TE. 287
48. — Criticism 0n )0t
HALLAM.
[HENRY HALLAM was born about 1778. He died in 1859. During a long
literary career he was looked up to as one of our most distinguished living
authors. His "View of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages," and
his "Constitutional History of England," have established his eminent rank as
an historian. Of his merits as a scholar and a critic, we have only to open his
" Introduction to the Literature of Europe," and see the extensive range of his
information and the soundness of his judgment.]
The first part of Don Quixote was published in 1605. We have
no reason, I believe, to suppose it was written long before. It
became immediately popular; and the admiration of the world
raised up envious competitors, one of whom, Avellenada, pub-
lished a continuation in a strain of invective against the author.
Cervantes, who cannot be imagined to have ever designed the
leaving his romance in so unfinished a state, took time about the
second part, which did not appear till 1615.
Don Quixote is the only book in the Spanish language which
can now be said to possess much of a European reputation. It
has, however, enjoyed enough to compensate for the neglect of all
the rest. It is to Europe in general, what Ariosto is to Italy, and
Shakspere to England; the one book to which the slightest allu-
sions may be made without affectation, but not missed without
discredit. Numerous translations and countless editions of them,
in every language, bespeak its adaptation to mankind; no critic
has been paradoxical enough to withhold his admiration, no reader
has ventured to confess a want of relish for that in which the young
and old, in every climate, have, age after age, taken delight. They
have, doubtless, believed that they understood the author's mean-
ing: and, in giving the reins to the gaiety that his fertile invention
and comic humour inspired, never thought of any deeper meaning
than he announces, or delayed their enjoyment for any metaphy-
sical investigation of his plan.
A new school of criticism, however, has of late years arisen in
Germany, acute, ingenious, and sometimes eminently successful in
philosophical, or, as they denominate it, aesthetic analysis of works
288 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HALLAM.
of taste, but gliding too much into refinement and conjectural
hypothesis, and with a tendency to mislead men of inferior capa-
cities for this kind of investigation into mere paradox and ab-
surdity. An instance is supplied, in my opinion, by some remarks
of Bouterwek, still more explicitly developed by Sismondi, on the
design of Cervantes in Don Quixote, and which have been re-
peated in other publications. According to these writers, the
primary idea is that of a " man of elevated character, excited by
heroic and enthusiastic feelings to the extravagant pitch of wishing
to restore the age of chivalry: nor is it possible to form a more
mistaken notion of this work, than by considering it merely as a
satire, intended by the author to ridicule the absurd passion for
reading old romances." " The fundamental idea of Don Quixote,"
says Sismondi, " is the eternal contrast between the spirit of
poetry and that of prose. Men of an elevated soul propose to
themselves, as the object of life, to be the defenders of the weak,
the support of the oppressed, the champions of justice and inno-
cence. Like Don Quixote, they find on every side the image of
the virtues they worship ; they believe that disinterestedness, noble-
ness, courage, in short, knight-errantry, are still prevalent; and,
with no calculation of their own powers, they expose themselves
for an ungrateful world, they offer themselves as a sacrifice to the
laws and rules of an imaginary state of society."
If this were a true representation of the scheme of Don Quixote,
we cannot wonder that some persons should, as M. Sismondi tells
they do, consider it as the most melancholy book that has ever
been written. They consider it also, no doubt, one of the most
immoral, as chilling and pernicious in its influence on the social
converse of mankind, as the " Prince" of Machiavel is on their po-
litical intercourse. " Cervantes," he proceeds, " has shown us, in
some measure, the vanity of greatness of soul, and the delusion of
heroism. He has drawn in Don Quixote a perfect man, (un homme
accompli]) who is nevertheless the constant object of ridicule.
Brave beyond the fabled knights he imitates, disinterested, honour-
able, generous, the most faithful and respectful of lovers, the best
of masters, the most accomplished and well educated of gentle-
HALLAM] CRITICISM ON DON QUIXOTE. 2gg
men, all his enterprises end in discomfiture to himself, and in mis-
chief to others." M. Sismondi descants on the perfections of the
Knight of La Mancha with a gravity which is not quite easy for
his readers to preserve.
It might be answered by a phlegmatic observer, that a mere
enthusiasm for doing good, if excited by vanity, and not accom-
panied by common sense, will seldom be very serviceable to our-
selves or to others; that men who, in their heroism and care for
the oppressed, would throw open the cages of lions, and set
galley-slaves at liberty, not forgetting to break the limbs of harm-
less persons whom they mistake for wrong-doers, are a class of
whom Don Quixote is the real type ; and that the world being
much the worse for such heroes, it might not be immoral, not-
withstanding their benevolent enthusiasm, to put them out of
countenance by a little ridicule. This, however, is not, as I con-
ceive, the primary aim of Cervantes; nor do I think that the
exhibition of one great truth, as the predominant, but concealed
moral of a long work, is in the spirit of his age. He possessed a
very thoughtful mind and a profound knowledge of humanity;
yet the generalisation which the hypothesis of Bouterwek and
Sismondi requires for the leading conceptions of Don Quixote,
besides its being a little inconsistent with the valorous and roman-
tic character of its author, belongs to a more advanced period of
philosophy than his own. It will, at all events, I presume, be
admitted that we cannot reason about Don Quixote except from
the book, and I think it may be shown in a few words that these
ingenious writers have been chiefly misled by some want of con-
sistency which circumstances produced in the author's delineation
of his hero.
In the first chapter of this romance, Cervantes, with a few
strokes of a great master, sets before us the pauper gentleman, an
early riser and keen sportsman, who, " when he was idle, which
was most part of the year," gave himself up to reading books of
chivalry till he lost his wits. The events that follow are in every
one's recollection; his lunacy consists, no doubt, only in one
idea; but this is so absorbing that it perverts the evidence of his
VOL. I. • T
2QO HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. I.HALLAM.
senses, and predominates in all his language. It is to be observed,
therefore, in relation to the nobleness of soul ascribed to Don
Quixote, that every sentiment he utters is borrowed with a punc-
tilious rigour from the romances of his library : he resorts to them
on every occasion for precedents. If he is intrepidly brave, it is
because his madness and vanity have made him believe himself
unconquerable; if he bestows kingdoms, it is because Amadis
would have done the same; if he is honourable, courteous, a re-
dresser of wrongs, it is in pursuance of these prototypes, from
whom, except that he seems rather more scrupulous in chastity,
it is his only boast not to diverge. Those who talk of the exalted
character of Don Quixote, seem really to forget that, on these
subjects, he has no character at all: he is the echo of romance;
and to praise him is merely to say, that the tone of chivalry,
which these productions studied to keep up, and, in the hands of
inferior artists, foolishly exaggerated, was full of moral dignity,
and has, in a subdued degree of force, modelled the character of
a man of honour in the present day. But throughout the first two
volumes of Don Quixote, though in a few unimportant passages
he talks rationally, I cannot find more than two in which he dis-
plays any other knowledge or strength of mind than the original
delineation of the character would led us to expect.
The case is much altered in the last two volumes. Cervantes
had acquired an immense popularity, and perceived the oppor-
tunity, of which he had already availed himself, that this romance
gave for displaying his own mind. He had become attached to a
hero who had made him illustrious, and suffered himself to lose
sight of the clear outline he had once traced for Quixote's person-
ality. Hence we find in all this second part, that, although the
lunacy as to knights-errant remains unabated, he is, on all other
subjects, not only rational in the low sense of the word, but clear,
acute, profound, sarcastic, cool-headed. His philosophy is ele-
vated, but not enthusiastic : his imagination is poetical, but it is
restrained by strong sense. There are, in fact, two Don Quixotes;
one, whom Cervantes first designed to draw, the foolish gentleman
of La Mancha, whose foolishness had made him frantic; the other
HALLAM.] CRITICISM ON DON QUIXO TE. 291
a highly gifted, accomplished model of the best chivalry, trained
in all the court, the camp, or the college could impart, but scathed
in one portion of his mind by an inexplicable visitation of mono-
mania. One is inclined to ask why this Don Quixote, who is
Cervantes, should have been more likely to lose his intellects by
reading romances, than Cervantes himself. As a matter of bodily
disease, such an event is doubtless possible ; but nothing can be
conceived more improper for fiction, nothing more incapable of
affording a moral lesson, than the insanity which arises wholly
from disease. Insanity is, in no point of view, a theme for ridi-
cule ; and this is an inherent fault of the romance, (for those who
have imagined that Cervantes has not rendered Quixote ridicu-
lous, have a strange notion of the word ;) but the thoughtlessness
of mankind, rather than their insensibility, for they do not connect
madness with misery, furnishes some apology for the first two
volumes. In proportion as we perceive, below the veil of mental
delusion, a noble intellect, we feel a painful sympathy with its
humiliation; the character becomes more complicated and in-
teresting, but has less truth and naturalness ; an objection which
might also be made, comparatively speaking, to the incidents in
the latter volumes, wherein I do not find the admirable probability
that reigns through the former. .... But this contrast of wisdom
and virtue with insanity in the same subject, would have been re-
pulsive in the primary delineation, as I think any one may judge
by supposing Cervantes had, in the first chapter, drawn such a
picture of Quixote as Bouterwek and Sismondi have drawn for
him.
I must, therefore, venture to think as, I believe, the world has
generally thought for two centuries, that Cervantes had no more
profound aim than he proposes to the reader. If the fashion of
reading bad romances of chivalry perverted the taste of his con-
temporaries, and rendered their language ridiculous, it was natu-
ral that a zealous lover of good literature should expose this folly
to the world, by exaggerating its effects on a fictitious personage.
It has been said by some modern writer, though I cannot remem-
ber by whom, that there was uprose side in the mind of Cervantes.
2Q2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HALLAM.
There was indeed a side of calm strong sense, which some take
for unpoetical. He thought the tone of those romances extrava-
gant. It might naturally occur how absurd any one must appear
who should attempt to realise in actual life the adventures of
Amadis. Already a novelist, he perceived the opportunities this
idea suggested. It was a necessary consequence that the hero
must be represented as literally insane, since his conduct would
have been extravagant beyond the probability of fiction on any
other hypothesis; and from this happy conception germinated, in
a very prolific mind, the whole history of Don Quixote. Its sim-
plicity is perfect ; no limit could be found save the author's dis-
cretion, or sense, that he had drawn sufficiently on his imagina-
tion; but the death of Quixote, which Cervantes has been said to
have determined upon, lest some one else should a second time
presume to continue the story, is in fact the only possible termin-
ation that could be given, after he had elevated the character to
that pitch of mental dignity which we find- in the last two volumes.
Few books of moral philosophy display as deep an insight into
the mechanism of the mind as Don Quixote. And when we look
also at the fertility of invention, the general probability of events,
and the great simplicity of the story, wherein no artifices are
practised to create suspense, or complicate the action, we shall
think Cervantes fully deserving of the glory that attends this
monument of his genius. It is not merely that he is superior to
all his predecessors and contemporaries. This, though it might
account for the European fame of his romance, would be an in-
adequate testimony to its desert. Cervantes stands on an emi-
nence below which we must place the best of his successors. We
have only to compare him with Le Sage or Fielding to judge of
his vast superiority. To Scott, indeed, he must yield in the
variety of his power; but, in the line of comic romance, we should
hardly think Scott his equal.
JEFFREY.] CHARACTER OF JAMES WATT. 293
49. — Character of Jfmws
JEFFREY.
[THE following " Notice and Character," from the pen of one of the most ac-
complished critics and writers of the last half century, appeared in the " Scots-
man," Edinburgh newspaper, in 1819. Francis Jeffrey, whose death, at the
beginning of 1850, left a blank which will not easily be filled up, was bora in.
1773. He was one of the eminent young men who established the " Edinburgh
Review," and for many years was its Editor. In 1834 he was appointed one of
the Judges of the Court of Session in Scotland ; and in that capacity his judi-
cial skill and integrity were as admirable as his earlier merits as an advocate.]
Mr James Watt, the great improver of the steam-engine, died
on the 25th of August 1819, at his seat of Heathfield, near Bir-
mingham, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.
This name fortunately needs no commemoration of ours ; for
he that bore it survived to see it crowned with undisputed and
unenvied honours; and many generations will probably pass away
before it shall have gathered " all its fame." We have said that
Mr Watt was the great improver of the steam-engine; but, in
truth, as to all that is admirable in its structure, or vast in its
utility, he should rather be described as its inventor. It was by
his inventions that its action was so regulated as to make it
capable of being applied to the finest and most delicate manu-
factures, and its power so increased as to set weight and solidity
at defiance. By his admirable contrivance, it has become a thing
stupendous alike for its force and its flexibility — for the prodi-
gious power which it can exert, and the ease, and precision, and
ductility with which that power can be varied, distributed, and
applied. The trunk of an elephant, that can pick up a pin or
rend an oak, is as nothing to it. It can engrave a seal, and crush
masses of obdurate metal before it — draw out, without breaking,
a thread as fine as gossamer, and lift a ship of war like a bauble
in the air. It can embroider muslin and forge anchors — cut
steel into ribands, and impel loaded vessels against the fury of
the winds and waves.
It would be difficult to estimaie the value of the benefits which
294 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.
these inventions have conferred upon this country. There is no
branch of industry that has not been indebted to them; and, in
all the most material, they have not only widened most mag-
nificently the field of its exertions, but multiplied a thousand-fold
the amount of its productions. It was our improved steam-
engine, in short, that fought the battles of Europe, and exalted
and sustained, through the late tremendous contest, the political
greatness of our land. It is the same great power which now
enables us to pay the interest of our debt, and to maintain the
arduous struggle in which we are still engaged [1819] with the
skill and capital of countries less oppressed with taxation. But
these are poor and narrow views of its importance. It has in-
creased indefinitely the mass of human comforts and enjoyments,
and rendered cheap and accessible, all over the world, the mate-
rials of wealth and prosperity. It has armed the feeble hand of
man, in short, with a power to which no limits can be assigned ;
completed the dominion of mind over the most refractory qualities
of matter; and laid a sure foundation for all those future miracles
of mechanic power which are to aid and reward the labours of
after generations. It is to the genius of one man, too, that all this
is mainly owing. And certainly no man ever bestowed such a
gift on his kind. The blessing is not only universal, but un-
bounded; and the fabled inventors of the plough and the loom,
who were deified by the erring gratitude of their rude contempo-
raries, conferred less important benefits on mankind than the
inventor of our present steam-engine.
This will be the fame of Watt with future generations : and it is
sufficient for his race and his country. But to those to whom he
more immediately belonged, who lived in his society and enjoyed
his conversation, it is not, perhaps, the character in which he will
be most frequently recalled — most deeply lamented — or even
most highly admired. Independently of his great attainments in
mechanics, Mr Watt was an extraordinary, and in many respects a
wonderful man. Perhaps no individual in his age possessed so
much and such varied and exact information — had read so much,
or remembered what he had read so accurately and well He had
JEFFREY.] CHARACTER OF JAMES WATT. 2Q5
infinite quickness of apprehension, a prodigious memory, and a
certain rectifying and methodising power of understanding, which
extracted something precious out of all that was presented to it.
His stores of miscellaneous knowledge were immense — and yet
less astonishing than the command he had at all times over them.
It seemed as if every subject that was casually started in conver-
sation with him, had been that which he had been last occupied
in studying and exhausting — such was the copiousness, the pre-
cision, and the admirable clearness of the information which he
poured out upon it, without effect or hesitation. Nor was this
promptitude and compass of knowledge confined in any degree to
the studies connected with his ordinary pursuits. That he should
have been minutely and extensively skilled in chemistry and the
arts, and in most of the branches of physical science, might per-
haps have been conjectured. But it could not have been inferred
from his casual occupations, and probably is not generally known,
that he was curiously learned in many branches of antiquity, meta-
physics, medicine, and etymology, and perfectly at home in all the
details of architecture, music, and law. He was well acquainted,
too, with most of the modern languages — and familiar with their
most recent literature. Nor was it at all extraordinary to hear the
great mechanician and engineer detailing and expounding, for hours
together, the metaphysical theories of the German logicians, or
criticising the measures or the matter of German poetry.
His astonishing memory was aided, no doubt, in a great measure,
by a still higher and rarer faculty — by his power of digesting and
arranging in its proper place, all the information he received, and of
casting aside and rejecting, as it were instinctively, whatever was
worthless or immaterial. Every conception that was suggested to
his mind seemed instantly to take its proper place among its other
rich furniture ; and to be condensed into the smallest and most con-
venient form. He never appeared, therefore, to be at all encum-
bered or perplexed with the verbiage, of the dull books he perused,
or the idle talk to which he listened ; but to have at once extract-
ed, by a kind of intellectual alchemy, all that was worthy of at-
tention, and to have reduced it, for his own use, to its true value
296 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JEFFREY.
and to its simplest form. And thus it often happened, that a great
deal more was learned from his brief and vigorous account of the
theories and arguments of tedious writers, than an ordinary student
could ever have derived from the most painful study of the origi-
nals— and that errors and absurdities became manifest from the
mere clearness and plainness of his statement of them, which
might have deluded and perplexed most of his hearers without
that invaluable assistance.
It is needless to say, that, with these vast resources, his con-
versation was at all times rich and instructive in no ordinary
degree ; but it was, if possible, still more pleasing than wise, and
had all the charms of familiarity with all the substantial trea-
sures of knowledge. No man could be more social in his spirit, less
assuming or fastidious in his manners, or more kind and indulgent
towards all who approached him. He rather liked to talk —
at least in his latter years: but though he took a considerable
share of the conversation, he rarely suggested the topics on which
it was to turn, but readily and quietly took up whatever was
presented by those around him: and astonished the idle and
barren propounders of an ordinary theme, by the treasures
which he drew from the mine they had unconsciously opened.
He generally seemed, indeed, to have no choice or predilection
for one subject of discourse rather than another; but allowed his
mind, like a great cyclopaedia, to be opened at any letter his as-
sociates might choose to turn up, and only endeavoured to select,
from his inexhaustible stores, what might be best adapted to the
taste of his present hearers. As to their capacity he gave himself
no trouble; and, indeed, such was his singular talent for making
all things plain, clear, and intelligible, that scarcely any one could
be aware of such a deficiency in his presence. His talk, too,
though overflowing with information, had no resemblance to lec-
turing or solemn discoursing, but, on the contrary, was full of
colloquial spirit and pleasantry. He had a certain quiet and grave
humour, which ran through most of his conversation, and a vein
of temperate jocularity, which gave infinite zest and effect to the
condensed and inexhaustible information which formed its main
JEFFREY.] CHARACTER OF JAMES WATT. 297
staple and characteristic. There was a little air of affected testi-
ness, too, and a tone of pretended rebuke and contradiction, with
which he used to address his younger friends, that was always felt
by them as an endearing mark of his kindness and familiarity, —
and prized accordingly, far beyond all the solemn compliments
that ever proceeded from the lips of authority. His voice was deep
and powerful — though he commonly spoke in a low and somewhat
monotonous tone, which harmonized admirably with the weight
and brevity of his observations ; and set off to the greatest advan-
tage the pleasant anecdotes which he delivered with the same
grave brow and the same calm smile playing soberly on his lips.
There was nothing of effort, indeed, or impatience, any more than
of pride or levity, in his demeanour: and there was a finer expres-
sion of reposing strength, and mild self-possession in his manner,
than we ever recollect to have met with in any other person. He
had in his character the utmost abhorrence for all sorts of for-
wardness, parade, and pretensions; and, indeed, never failed
to put all such impostures out of countenance, by the manly
plainness and honest intrepidity of his language and deport-
ment.
In his temper and dispositions, he was not only kind and affec-
tionate, but generous, and considerate of the feelings of all around
him ; and gave the most liberal assistance and encouragement to
all young persons who showed any indications of talent, or applied
to him for patronage or advice. His health, which was delicate
from his youth upwards, seemed to become firmer as he advanced
in years; and he preserved, up almost to the last moment of his
existence, not only the full command of his extraordinary intellect,
but all the alacrity of spirit and the social gaiety which had
illumined his happiest days. His friends in this part of the
country never saw him more full of intellectual vigour and collo-
quial animation — never more delightful or more instructive — than
in his last visit to Scotland in the autumn of 1817. Indeed, it was
after that time that he applied himself, with all the ardour of early
life, to the invention of a machine for mechanically copying all
sorts of sculpture and statuary; — and distributed among his friends
298 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BUTLER.
some of its earliest performances, as the productions of " a young
artist, just entering on his eighty-third year!"
This happy and useful life came, at last, to a gentle close. He
had suffered some inconvenience through the summer, but was
not seriously indisposed till within a few weeks from his death.
He then became perfectly aware of the event which was approach-
ing; and with his usual tranquillity and benevolence of nature,
seemed only anxious to point out to his friends around him the
many sources of consolation which were afforded by the circum-
stances under which it was about to take place. He expressed
his sincere gratitude to Providence for the length of days with
which he had been blessed, and his exemption from most of the
infirmities of age; as well as for the calm and cheerful evening of
life that he had been permitted to enjoy, after the honourable
labours of the day had been concluded. And thus, full of years
and honours, in all calmness and tranquillity, he yielded up his
soul, without pang or struggle, and passed from the bosom of his
family to that of his God.
50. —
BUTLER.
QOSEPH BUTLER, Bishop of Durham, was born in 1692, and died in 1752.
He was the son of a shopkeeper at Wantage, in Berkshire, who was a dis-
senter of the Presbyterian denomination. Joseph Butler was brought up in a
dissenting academy at Tewkesbury. In 1714 he conformed to the Established
Church, having been led to this determination by the result of his own anxious
inquiries. He accordingly entered Oriel College, Oxford, and subsequently
was admitted into holy orders. The most remarkable of his writings is " The
Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of
Nature" — a work of somewhat abstruse reasoning, requiring a diligent study,
but admirably calculated to fix the religion of an inquiring mind upon the most
solid foundation. His " Sermons," fifteen in number, were preached at the
Rolls Chapel, in London, and were first published in 1 726. The following is
an extract from his sermon on the text from James i. 26 — "If any man among
you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart,
this man's religion is vain."]
BUTLER.] UPON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 299
The due and proper use of any natural faculty or power, is to be
judged of by the end and design for which it was given us. The
chief purpose for which the faculty of speech was given to man,
is plainly that we might communicate our thoughts to each other,
in order to carry on the affairs of the world ; for business, and
for our improvement in knowledge and learning. But the good
Author of our nature designed us not only necessaries, but like-
wise enjoyment and satisfaction, in that being He hath graciously
given, and in that condition of life He hath placed us in. There
are secondary uses of our faculties which administer to delight,
.as the primary administer to necessity : and as they are equally
adapted to both, there is no doubt but he intended them for our
gratification, as well as for the support and continuance of our
being. The secondary use of speech is to please and be enter-
taining to each other in conversation. This is in every respect
allowable and right ; it unites men closer in alliances and friend-
ships ; gives us a fellow feeling of the prosperity and unhappiness
of each other; and is in several respects serviceable to virtue,
and to promote good behaviour in the world. And provided
there be not too much time spent in it, if it were considered only
in the way of gratification and delight, men must have strange
notions of God and of religion, to think that He can be offended
with it, or that it is any way inconsistent with the strictest virtue.
But the truth is, such sort of conversation, though it has no par-
ticular good tendency, yet it has a general good one ; it is social
and friendly, and tends to promote humanity, good nature, and
civility. Therefore as the end and use, so likewise the abuse of
speech, relates to the one or other of these ; either to business or
to conversation. As to the former, deceit in the management of
business and affairs does not properly belong to the subject now
before us ; though one may just mention that multitude, that end-
less number of words, with which business is perplexed, when a
much fewer would, as it should seem, better serve the purpose ;
but this must be left to those who understand the matter. The
government of the tongue, considered as a subject of itself, re-
lates chiefly to conversation, to that kind of discourse which
30O HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BUTLER.
usually fills up the time spent in friendly meetings and visits of
civility : and the danger is, lest persons entertain themselves and
others at the expense of their wisdom and their virtue, and to the
injury or offence of their neighbour. If they will take heed and
keep clear of these, they may be as free, and easy, and unre-
served, as they can desire. The cautions to be given for avoiding
them, and to render conversation innocent and agreeable, fall
under the following particulars : — Silence ; talking of indifferent
things ; and, which makes up too great a part of conversation,
giving of characters, speaking well or evil of others.
The wise man observes, that " there is a time to speak, and a
time to keep silence." One meets with people in the world who
seem never to have made the last of these observations. And yet
these great talkers do not at all speak from their having anything
to say, as every sentence shows, but only from their inclination to
be talking. Their conversation is merely an exercise of the
tongue ; no other human faculty has any share in it. It is strange
these persons can help reflecting, that, unless they have in truth
a superior capacity, and are in an extraordinary manner furnished
for conversation, if they are entertaining, it is at their own ex-
pense. Is it possible that it should never come into people's
thoughts to suspect, whether or no it be to their advantage to
show so very much of themselves 1 " O that ye would altogether
hold your peace, and it should be your wisdom," (Job xiii. 5.)
Remember likewise there are persons who love fewer words, an
inoffensive sort of people, and who deserve some regard, though
of too still and composed tempers for you. Of this number was
the son of Sirach : for he plainly speaks from experience, when
he says, " As hills of sand are to the steps of the aged, so is one
of many words to a quiet man." But one would think it should
be obvious to every one, that when they are in company with
their superiors of any kind, in years, knowledge, and experience,
when proper and useful subjects are discoursed of which they can-
not bear a part in, that these are times for silence, when they
should learn to hear and be attentive ; at least in their turn. It
is indeed a very unhappy way these people are in ; they in a man-
BUTLKR.] UPON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 301
ner cut themselves out from all advantage of conversation, except
that of being entertained with their own talk ; their business in
coming into company not being at all to be informed — to hear, to
learn — but to display themselves, or rather to exert their faculty
and talk without .any design at all. And if we consider conver-
sation as an entertainment — as somewhat to unbend the mind —
as a diversion from the cares, the business, and the sorrows of life,
it is of the very nature of it, that the discourse be mutual. This,
I say, is implied in the very notion of what we distinguish by con-
versation, or being in company. Attention to the continued dis-
course of one alone grows more painful often than the cares and
business we came to be diverted from. He, therefore, who im-
poses this upon us, is guilty of a double offence ; by arbitrarily
enjoining silence upon all the rest, and likewise by obliging them
to this painful attention. I am sensible these things are apt to be
passed over, as too little to come into a serious discourse ; but in
reality men are obliged, even in point of morality and virtue, to
observe all the decencies of behaviour. The greatest evils in life
have had their rise from somewhat which was thought of too little
importance to be attended to. And as to the matter we are now
upon, it is absolutely necessary to be considered : for if people
will not maintain a due government over themselves, in regarding
proper times and seasons for silence, but will be talking ; they
certainly, whether they design it or not at first, will go on to scan-
dal, and evil speaking, and divulging secrets. If it were needful
to say anything further to persuade men to learn this lesson of
silence, one might put them in mind how in significant they render
themselves by this excessive talkativeness ; insomuch that if they
do chance to say anything which deserves to be attended to and
regarded, it is lost in the variety and abundance which they utter
of another sort. The occasions of silence then are obvious, and
one would think should be easily distinguished by everybody;
namely, when a man has nothing to say, or nothing but what is
better unsaid : better, either in regard to the particular persons he
is present with, or from its being an interruption to conversation
itself, or to conversation of a more agreeable kind ; or better,
302 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BUTLER.
lastly, with regard to himself. I will end this particular with two
reflections of the wise man ; one of which in the strongest man-
ner exposes the ridiculous part of this licentiousness of the
tongue ; and the other, the great danger and viciousness of it.
" When he that is a fool walketh by the wayside, his wisdom
faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool," (Eccl.
x. 3.) The other is, " In the multitude of words there wanteth
not sin," (Prov. x. 19.)
As to the government of the tongue in respect to talking upon
indifferent subjects, after what has been said concerning the due
government of it in respect to the occasions and times for silence,
there is little more necessary than only to caution men to be fully
satisfied that the subjects are indeed of an indifferent nature; and
not to spend too much time in conversation of this kind. But
persons must be sure to take heed that the subject of their dis-
course be at least of an indifferent nature ; that it be no way
offensive to virtue, religion, or good manners; that it be not of a
licentious dissolute sort, this leaving always ill impressions upon
the mind ; that it be no way injurious or vexatious to others ; and
that too much time be not spent this way, to the neglect of those
duties and offices of life which belong to their station and condi-
tion in the world. But though there is not any necessity that
men should aim at being important and weighty in every sentence
they speak, yet since useful subjects, at least of some kinds, are
as entertaining as others, a wise man, even when he desires to un-
bend his mind from business, would choose that the conversation
might turn upon somewhat instructive.
The last thing is, the government of the tongue as relating to
discourse of the affairs of others, and giving of characters. These
are, in a manner, the same ; and one can scarce call it an indif-
ferent subject, because discourse upon it almost perpetually runs
into somewhat criminal. And first of all, it were very much to be
wished that this did not take up so great, a part of conversation •
because it is indeed a subject of a dangerous nature. Let any
one consider the various interests, competitions, and little mis-
understandings which arise amongst men, and he will soon see
BUTLER.] UPON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE. 303
that he is not unprejudiced and impartial ; that he is not, as I
may speak, neutral enough, to trust himself with talking of the
character and concerns of his neighbour, in a free, careless, and
unreserved manner. There is perpetually, and often it is not
attended to, a rivalship amongst people of one kind or another,
in respect of wit, beauty, learning, or fortune, and that one thing
will insensibly influence them to speak to the disadvantage of
others, even where there is no formed malice or ill design.
Since, therefore, it is so hard to enter into this subject without
offending, the first thing to be observed is, that people should
learn to decline it, to get over that strong inclination most have
to be talking of the concerns and behaviour of their neighbour.
But since it is impossible that this subject should be wholly ex-
cluded conversation, and since it is necessary that the characters
of men should be known ; the next thing is, that it is a matter of
importance what is said, and, therefore, that we should be reli-
giously scrupulous and exact to say nothing, either good or bad,
but what is true.
Upon the whole matter, if people would observe the obvious
occasions of silence, if they would subdue the inclination to tale-
bearing, and that eager desire to engage attention, which is an
original disease in some minds, they would be in little danger of
offending with their tongue, and would in a moral and religious
sense have due government over it. I will conclude with some
precepts and reflections of the son of Sirach upon this subject :
" Be swift to hear, and if thou hast understanding, answer thy
neighbour ; if not, lay thy hand upon thy mouth. Honour and
shame is in talk. A man of an ill tongue is dangerous in his
city, and he that is rash in his talk shall be hated. A wise man
will hold his tongue till he see opportunity ; but a babbler and a
fool will regard no time. A backbiting tongue hath disquieted
many; strong cities hath it pulled down, and overthrown the
houses of great men. The tongue of a man is his fall ; but if
thou love to hear, thou shalt receive understanding."
304 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIFFORD.
GIFFORD AT BRIXHAM.
51. — (§ifficrrtr's Jlrnnmt of jjis
[THE history of men who have overleaped "poverty's unconquerable bar" is
always interesting. It is most interesting when they are their own historians.
William Gifford, a friendless orphan, a shoemaker's ill-used apprentice, who
came to be looked up to by the learned and the great as a scholar and a critic,
has told his own tale with a manly frankness that does the highest honour to
his character. Perhaps this little piece of autobiography, which was prefixed
to his translation of Juvenal in 1802, will be the most enduring thing he has
written. He was a decided political partisan, and as the editor of the Quar-
terly Review, was too apt to forget that there are higher and better things than
the power of satirising and defaming writers of opposite politics. Mr Gifford
was born in 1757 ; died in 1826.]
I was not quite thirteen when this happened [the death of his
widowed mother] ; my little brother was hardly two, and we had
not a relation nor a friend in the world. Everything that was
left was seized by a person of the name of Carlile, for money ad-
vanced to my mother. It may be supposed that I could not
dispute the justice of his claims ; and, as no one else interfered,
he was suffered to do as he liked. My little brother was sent to
the almshouse, whither his nurse followed him out of pure affection ;
GIFFORD.] GIFFORD'S ACCO UNT OF HIS EARL Y DA YS. 305
and I was taken to the house of the person I have just mentioned,
who was also my godfather. Respect for the opinion of the town
(which, whether correct or not, was that he had amply repaid
himself by the sale of my mother's effects) induced him to send
me again to school, where I was more diligent than before, and
more successful. I grew fond of arithmetic, and my master be-
gan to distinguish me; but these golden days were over in less
than three months. Carlile sickened at the expense ; and as the
people were now indifferent to my fate, he looked round for an
opportunity of ridding himself of a useless charge. He had pre-
viously attempted to engage me in the drudgery of husbandry.
I drove the plough for one day to gratify him ; but I left it with
the resolution to do so no more, and in despite of his threats and
promises adhered to my determination. In this I was guided no
less by necessity than will. During my father's life, in attempting
to clamber up a table, I had fallen backwards and drawn it after
me : its edge fell upon my breast, and I never recovered the effects
of the blow, of which I was made extremely sensible on any extra-
ordinary exertion. Ploughing, therefore, was out of the question ;
and as I have already said, I utterly refused to follow it.
As I could write and cipher, (as the phrase is,) Carlile next
thought of sending me to Newfoundland to assist in a storehouse.
For this purpose he negotiated with a Mr Holdsworthy of Dart-
mouth, who agreed to fit me out. I left Ashburton with little
expectation of seeing it again, and indeed with little care, and rode
with my godfather to the dwelling of Mr Holdsworthy. On seeing
me, this great man observed, with a look of pity and contempt,
that I was "too small," and sent me away sufficiently mortified.
I expected to be very ill received by my godfather, but he said
nothing. He did not, however, choose to take me back himself,
but sent me in a passage-boat to Totness, from whence I was to
walk home. On the passage the boat was driven by a midnight
storm on the rocks, and I escaped almost by a miracle.
My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had little
heart to resist anything. He proposed to send me on board one
of the Torbay fishing-boats ; I ventured, however, to remonstrate
VOL. i.
306 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIFFORD.
against this, and the matter was compromised by my consenting
to go on board a coaster. A coaster was speedily found for me
at Brixham, and thither I went when little more than thirteen.
My master, whose name was Full, though a gross and ignorant,
was not an ill-natured man, at least, not to me ; and my mistress
used me with unvarying kindness, moved, perhaps, by my weak-
ness and tender years. In return I did what I could to requite
her, and my good-will was not overlooked.
Our vessel was not very large, nor our crew very numerous. On
ordinary occasions, such as short trips to Dartmouth, Plymouth,
&c., it consisted only of my master, an apprentice nearly out of
his time, and myself; when we had to go farther, to Portsmouth,
for example, an additional hand was hired for the voyage.
In this vessel (the Two Brothers] I continued nearly a twelve-
month ; and I here got acquainted with nautical terms, and con-
tracted a love for the sea, which a lapse of thirty years has but
little diminished.
It will be easily conceived that my life was a life of hardship.
I was not only a " ship-boy on the high and giddy mast," but also
in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot; yet, if I was
restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on
account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of
reading; as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing
during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any
description, except the " Coasting Pilot."
As my lot seemed to be cast, however, I was not negligent in
seeking such information as promised to be useful; and I, there-
fore, frequented, at my leisure hours, such vessels as dropped into
Torbay. On attempting to get on board one of these, which I
did at midnight, I missed my footing, and fell into the sea. The
floating away of the boat alarmed the man on deck, who came to
the ship's side just in time to see me sink. He immediately threw
out several ropes, one of which providentially (for I was uncon-
scious of it) entangled itself about me, and I was drawn up to the
surface, till a boat could be got round. The usual methods were
taken to recover me, and I awoke in bed the next morning, re-
GJFFORD.] GIFFORD'S ACCOUNT OF HIS EARLY DA YS. 307
membering nothing but the horror I felt when I first found myself
unable to call out for assistance.
This was not my only escape, but I forbear to speak of them.
An escape of another kind was now preparing for me, which de-
serves all my notice, as it was decisive of my future fate.
On Christmas Day (1770) I was surprised by a message from
my godfather, saying that he had sent a man and horse to bring
me to Ashburton, and desiring me to set out without delay. My
master, as well as myself, supposed it was to spend the holidays
there, and he therefore made no objection to my going. We
were, however, both mistaken.
Since I had lived at Brixham, I had broken off all connexion
with Ashburton. I had no relation there but my poor brother,
who was yet too young for any kind of correspondence ; and the
conduct of my godfather towards me did not entitle him to any
portion of my gratitude or kind remembrance. I lived, therefore,
in a sort of sullen independence of all I had formerly known, and
thought without regret of being abandoned by every one to my
fate. But I had not been overlooked. The women of Brixham,
who travelled to Ashburton twice a week with fish, and who had
known my parents, did not see me, without kind concern, running
about the beach in a ragged jacket and trousers. They men-
tioned this to the people of Ashburton, and never without com-
miserating my change of condition. This tale, often repeated,
awakened at length the pity of their auditors, and, as the next
step, their resentment against the man who had brought me to
such a state of wretchedness. In a large town this would have
had but little effect ; but in a place like Ashburton, where every
report speedily becomes the common property of all the inhabi-
tants, it raised a murmur which my godfather found himself either
unable or unwilling to encounter; he therefore determined to
recall me, which he could easily do, as I wanted some months of
fourteen, and was not yet bound.
All this I learned on my arrival; and my heart, which had been
cruelly shut up, now opened to kinder sentiments and fairer views.
After the holidays, I returned to my darling pursuit, arithmetic:
308 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GIFFORD.
my progress was now so rapid, that in a few months I was at the
head of the school, and qualified to assist my master (Mr E. Fur-
long) on any extraordinary emergency. As he usually gave me a
trifle on those occasions, it raised a thought in me, that, by
engaging with him as a regular assistant, and undertaking the
instruction of a few evening scholars, I might, with a little addi-
tional aid, be enabled to support myself. God knows my ideas of
support at this time were of no very extravagant nature. I had,
besides, another object in view. Mr Hugh Smerdon (my first
master) was now grown old and infirm ; it seemed unlikely that he
should hold out above three or four years ; and I fondly flattered
myself that, notwithstanding my youth, I might possibly be ap-
pointed to succeed him. I was in my fifteenth year when I built
these castles; a storm, however, was collecting, which unexpect-
edly burst upon me and swept them all away.
On mentioning my little plan to Carlile, he treated it with the
utmost contempt, and told me, in his turn, that as I had learned
enough, and more than enough, at school, he must be considered
as having fairly discharged his duty, (so, indeed, he had;) he
added, that he had been negotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker
of some respectability, who had liberally agreed to take me with-
out a fee as an apprentice. I was so shocked at this intelligence
that I did not remonstrate, but went in sullenness and silence to
my new master, to whom I was soon after bound, till I should
attain the age of twenty-one.
The family consisted of four journeymen, two sons about my
own age, and an apprentice somewhat older. In these there was
nothing remarkable; but my master was the strangest creature.
He was a Presbyterian, whose reading was entirely confined to
the small tracts published on the Exeter controversy. As these
(at least his portion of them) were all on one side, he entertained
no doubt of their infallibility, and, being noisy and disputatious,
was sure to silence his opponents; and became, in consequence
of it, intolerably arrogant and conceited. He was not, however,
indebted solely to his knowledge of the subject for his triumph;
he was possessed of Fenning's Dictionary, and he made a most
GIFFORD.] GIFFORVS ACCOUNT OF HIS EARLY DAYS. 309
singular use of it. His custom was to fix on any word in common
use, and then to get by heart the synonym or periphrasis by which
it was explained in the book; this he constantly substituted for
the simple term, and, as his opponents were commonly ignorant
of his meaning, his victory was complete.
With such a man I was not likely to add much to my stock of
knowledge, small as it was; and, indeed, nothing could well be
smaller. At this period I had read nothing but a black-letter
romance, called "Parismus and Parimenus," and a few loose
magazines which my mother had brought from South Molton.
With the Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted ; it was the favourite
study of my grandmother, and reading it frequently with her had
impressed it strongly on my mind : these, then, with the " Imita-
tion of Thomas a Kempis," which I used to read to my mother
on her deathbed, constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.
As I hated my new profession with a perfect hatred, I made
no progress in it, and was consequently little regarded in the
family, of which I sank by degrees into the common drudge : this
did not much disquiet me, for my spirits were now humbled. I
did not, however, quite resign my hope of one day succeeding to
Mr Hugh Smerdon, and therefore secretly prosecuted my favourite
study at every interval of leisure.
These intervals were not very frequent; and, when the use I
made of them was found out, they were rendered still less so. I
could not guess the motives for this at first; but at length I dis-
covered that my master destined his youngest son for the situation
to which I aspired.
I possessed at this time but one book in the world : it was a
treatise on algebra, given me by a young woman, who had found
it in a lodging-house. I considered it as a treasure; but it was a
treasure locked up; for it supposed the reader to be well ac-
quainted with simple equation, and I knew nothing of the matter.
My master's son had purchased " Fenning^s Introduction : " this
was precisely what I wanted; but he carefully concealed it from
me, and I was indebted to chance alone for stumbling upon his
hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of several nights sue-
3 1 0 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [GiFFORD.
cessively, and, before he suspected that his treatise was discovered,
had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my own ;
and that carried me pretty far into the science.
This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on
earth, nor a friend to give me one : pen, ink, and paper, there-
fore, (in despite of the flippant remark of Lord Orford,) were, for
the most part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and
sceptre. There was, indeed, a resource ; but the utmost caution
and secrecy were necessary in applying to it. I beat out pieces
of leather as smooth as possible, and wrought my problems on
them with a blunted awl; for the rest, my memory was tenacious,
and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.
Hitherto I had not so much as dreamed of poetry — indeed, I
scarcely knew it by name ; and, whatever may be said of the force
of nature, I certainly never " lisped in numbers." I recollect the
occasion of my first attempt : it is, like all the rest of my non-ad-
ventures, of so unimportant a nature, that I should blush to call
the attention of the idlest reader to it, but for the reason alleged
in the introductory paragraph. A person, whose name escapes
me, had undertaken to paint a sign for an ale-house; it was to
have been a lion, but the unfortunate artist produced a dog. On
this awkward affair one of my acquaintance wrote a copy of what
we called verse: I liked it; but fancied I could compose some-
thing more to the purpose : I made the experiment, and, by the
unanimous suffrage of my shopmates, was allowed to have suc-
ceeded. Notwithstanding this encouragement, I thought no more
of verse till another occurrence, as trifling as the former, furnished
me with a fresh subject; and thus I went on till I had got together
about a dozen of them. Certainly, nothing on earth was ever so
deplorable; such as they were, however, they were talked of in
my little circle, and I was sometimes invited to repeat them even
out of it. I never committed a line to paper, for two reasons ;
first, because I had no paper; and secondly — perhaps I might be
excused from going further — but in truth I was afraid, as my
master had already threatened me, for inadvertently hitching the
name of one of his customers into a rhyme.
GIFFORD.] GIFFORD'S ACCOUNT OF HIS EARL Y DAYS. 311
The repetitions of which I speak were always attended with
applause, and sometimes with favours more substantial : little col-
lections were now and then made, and I have received sixpence
in an evening. To one who had long lived in the absolute want
of money, such a resource seemed a Peruvian mine : I furnished
myself by degrees with paper, &c., and, what was of more import-
ance, with books of geometry, and of the higher branches of
algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry, even at this time,
was no amusement of mine: it was subservient to other purposes;
and I only had recourse to it when I wanted money for my mathe-
matical pursuits.
But the clouds were gathering fast: my master's anger was
raised to a terrible pitch by my indifference to his concerns, and
still more by the reports which were daily brought to him of my
presumptuous attempts at versification. I was required to give
up my papers, and when I refused, my garret was searched, and
my little hoard of books discovered and removed, and all future
repetitions prohibited in the strictest manner.
This was a very severe stroke, and I felt it most sensibly: it
was followed by another, severer still — a stroke which crushed
the hopes I had so long and fondly cherished, and resigned me at
once to despair. Mr Hugh Smerdon, on succeeding whom I had
calculated, died, and was succeeded by a person not much older
than myself, and certainly not so well qualified for the situation.
I look back on that part of my life which immediately followed
this event with little satisfaction ; it was a period of gloom and
savage unsociability : by degrees I sunk into a kind of corporeal
torpor; or, if roused into activity by the spirit of youth, wasted
the exertion in splenetic and vexatious tricks, which alienated the
few acquaintances which compassion had yet left me. So I crept
on in silent discontent, unfriended and unpitied, indignant at the
present, careless of the future, an object at once of apprehension
and dislike.
From this state of abjectness I was raised by a young woman
of my own class. She was a neighbour ; and whenever I took my
solitary walk, with my "Wolfius" in my pocket, she usually came
3 1 2 HALF-HO URS WITH THE PEST A UTHORS. [GIFFORD.
to the door, and by a smile, or a short question put in the friend-
liest manner, endeavoured to solicit my attention. My heart had
been long shut to kindness, but the sentiment was not dead in
me : it revived at the first encouraging word ; and the gratitude I
felt for it was the first pleasing sensation which I had ventured to
entertain for many dreary months.
Together with gratitude, hope, and other passions still more
enlivening, took place of that uncomfortable gloominess which so
lately possessed me : I returned to my companions, and by every
winning art in my power strove to make them forget my former
repulsive ways. In this I was not unsuccessful ; I recovered their
good-will, and by degrees grew to be somewhat of a favourite.
My master still murmured, for the business of the shop went on
no better than before : I comforted myself, however, with the re-
flection that my apprenticeship was drawing to a conclusion, when
I determined to renounce the employment for ever, and to open
a private school.
In this humble and obscure state, poor beyond the common lot,
yet flattering my ambition with day-dreams which perhaps would
never have been realised, I was found in the twentieth year of my
age by Mr William Cookesley, a name never to be pronounced
by me without veneration. The lamentable doggerel which I have
already mentioned, and which had passed from mouth to mouth
among people of my own degree, had by some accident or othei
reached his ear, and given -him a curiosity to inquire after the
author.
It was my good fortune to interest his benevolence. My little
history was not untinctured with melancholy, and I laid it fairly
before him : his first care was to console ; his second, which he
cherished to the last moment of his existence, was to relieve and
support me.
Mr Cookesley was not rich : his eminence in his profession,
which was that of a surgeon, procured him, indeed, much employ-
ment ; but in a country town men of science are not the most
liberally rewarded : he had, besides, a very numerous family, which
left him little for the purposes of general benevolence ; that little,
GIFFORD.] G1FFOR&S A CCO UNT OF HIS EARL Y DAYS. Z1Z
however, was cheerfully bestowed, and his activity and zeal were
always at hand to support the deficiencies of his fortune.
On examining into the nature of my literary attainments, he
found them absolutely nothing: he heard, however, with equal
surprise and pleasure, that, amidst the grossest ignorance of books,
I had made a very considerable progress in the mathematics. He
engaged me to enter into the details of this affair ; and, when he
learned that I had made it in circumstances of peculiar discour-
agement, he became more warmly interested in my favour, as he
now saw a possibility of serving me.
The plan that occurred to him was naturally that which had so
often suggested itself to me. There were indeed several obstacles
to be overcome : I had eighteen months yet to serve ; my hand-
writing was bad, and my language very incorrect: but nothing
could slacken the zeal of this excellent man : he procured a few ot
my poor attempts at rhyme, dispersed them amongst his friends
and acquaintance, and, when my name was become somewhat
familiar to them, set on foot a subscription for my relief. I still
preserve the original paper; its title was not very magnificent,
though it exceeded the most sanguine wishes of my heart ; it ran
thus, "A subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time
of William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in
writing and English grammar." Few contributed more than five
shillings, and none went beyond ten-and-sixpence : enough, how-
ever, was collected to free me from my apprenticeship, and to
maintain me for a few months, during which I assiduously
attended the Rev. Thomas Smerdon.
At the expiration of this period, it was found that my progress
(for I will speak the truth in modesty) had been more considerable
than my patrons expected : I had also written in the interim several
little pieces of poetry, less rugged, I suppose, than my former ones,
and certainly with fewer anomalies of language. My preceptor,
too, spoke favourably of me ; and my benefactor, who was now
become my father and my friend, had little difficulty in persuading
my patrons to renew their donations, and to continue me at school
for another year. Such liberality was not lost upon me ; I grew
314 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BRETT.
anxious to make the best return in my power, and I redoubled my
diligence. Now that I am sunk into indolence, I look back with
some degree of scepticism to the exertions of that period.
In two years and two months from the day of my emancipation,
I was pronounced by Mr Smerdon fit for the university. The
plan of opening a writing-school had been abandoned almost
from the first ; and Mr Cookesley looked round for some one
who had interest enough to procure me some little office at Oxford.
This person, who was soon found, was Thomas Taylor, Esq., of
Denbury, a gentleman to whom I had already been indebted for
much liberal and friendly support. He procured me the place of
Biblical Lecturer at Exeter College ; and this, with such occa-
sional assistance from the country as Mr Cookesley undertook to
provide, was thought sufficient to enable me to live, at least till I
had taken a degree.
52.— £* Ste 0f
BRETT.
[THERE is an old tradition that Richard III. had a natural son, whom he
caused to be carefully educated, and to whom he discovered himself on the night
before the battle which lost him his life and his crown. The stoiy was first
made known in a letter, printed in Peck's "Desiderata Curiosa," from Dr
Thomas Brett to Dr William Warren, which letter was written in 1733.]
. . . . Now for the story of Richard Plantagenet. In the
year 1720 (I have forgot the particular day, only remember it was
about Michaelmas) I waited on the late Lord Heneage, Earl of
Winchelsea, at Eastwell House, and found him sitting, with the
register of the parish of Eastwell lying open before him. He told
me, that he had been looking there to see who of his own family
were mentioned in it. But, says he, I have a curiosity here to show
you, and then showed me, and I immediately transcribed it into
my almanac, " Richard Plantagenet was buried the 22d day of De-
cember, anno ut supra. Ex Registro de Eastwell, sub anno 1550."
This is all the register mentions of him ; so that we cannot say
BRETT. ] THE S TOR Y OF R 1C HARD PL A NT A GENE T. 315
whether he was buried in the church or churchyard; nor is there
now any other memorial of him except the tradition in the family,
and some little marks where his house stood. The story my lord
told me was this : —
When Sir Thomas Moyle built that house, (Eastwell Place,) he
observed his chief bricklayer, whenever he left off work, retired
with a book. Sir Thomas had curiosity to know what book the
man read, but was some time before he could discover it, he still
putting the book up if any one came towards him. However, at
last, Sir Thomas surprised him, and snatched the book from him,
and, looking into it, found it to be Latin. Hereupon he examined
him, and finding he pretty well understood that language, inquired
how he came by his learning: hereupon the man told him, as he
had been a good master to him, he would venture to trust him
with a secret he had never before revealed to any one. He then
informed him, that he was boarded with a Latin schoolmaster,
without knowing who his parents were, till he was fifteen or sixteen
years old; only a gentleman (who took occasion to acquaint him
he was no relation of his) came once a quarter, and paid for his
board, and took care to see that he wanted nothing. And one
day this gentleman took him, and carried him to a fine great
house, where he passed through several stately rooms, in one of
which he left him, bidding him stay there.
Then a man, finely dressed, with a star and garter, came to him,
asked him some questions, talked kindly to him, and gave him
some money. Then the fore-mentioned gentleman returned, and
conducted him back to his school.
Some time after, the same gentleman came to him again, with a
horse and proper accoutrements, and told him he must take a jour-
ney with him into the country. They went into Leicestershire,
and came to Bosworth field ; and he was carried to King Richard
III.'s tent. The king embraced him, and told him he was. his
son. " But, child," says he, " to-morrow I must fight for my
crown. And, assure yourself, if I lose that, I will lose my life
too: but I hope to preserve both. Do you stand in such a place,
(directing him to a particular place,) where you may see the battle,
316 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BRETT.
out of danger. And when I have gained the victory, come to
me; I will then own you to be mine, and take care of you. But
if I should be so unfortunate as to lose the battle, then shift as
well as you can, and take care to let nobody know that I am your
father; for no mercy will be shown to any one so nearly related
to me." Then the king gave him a purse of gold, and dismissed
him.
He followed the king's directions; and, when he saw the battle
was lost, and the king killed, he hasted to London, sold his horse
and fine clothes, and, the better to conceal himself from all sus-
picion of being son to a king, and that he might have means to
live by his honest labour, he put himself apprentice to a brick-
layer. But, having a competent skill in the Latin tongue, he was
unwilling to lose it; and having an inclination also to reading,
and no delight in the conversation of those he was obliged to
work with, he generally spent all the time he had to spare in read-
ing by himself.
Sir Thomas said, "You are now old, and almost past your
labour; I will give you the running of my kitchen as long as you
live." He answered, "Sir, you have a numerous family; I have
been used to live retired; give me leave to build a house of one
room for myself, in such a field, and there, with your good leave,
I will live and die." Sir Thomas granted his request; he built his
house, and there continued to his death.
I suppose (though my lord did not mention it) that he went to
eat in the family, and then retired to his hut. My lord said that
there was no park at that time; but when the park was made, that
house was taken into it, and continued standing till his (my lord's)
father pulled it down. " But," said my lord, " I would as soon
have pulled down this house;" meaning Eastwell Place.
I have been computing the age of this Richard Plantagenet
when he died, and find it to be about 81. For Richard III. was
killed August 23, 1485, which, subtracted from 1550, there re-
mains 65, to which add 16, (for the age of Richard Plantagenet at
that time,) and it makes 81. But, though he lived to that age, he
could scarcely enjoy his retirement in his little house above two
ANONYMOUS.] THE OLD AND THE YOUNG COURTIER. 317
or three years, or a little more. For I find by Philpot, that Sir
Thomas Moyle did not purchase the estate of Eastwell till about
the year 1543 or 1544. We may, therefore, reasonably suppose
that, upon his building a new house on his purchase, he could not
come to live in it till 1546, but that his workmen were continued
to build the walls about his gardens, and other conveniences off
from the house. And till he came to live in the house he could
not well have an opportunity of observing how Richard Planta-
genet retired with his book. So that it was probably towards the
latter end of the year 1546 when Richard and Sir Thomas had
the fore-mentioned dialogue together. Consequently, Richard
could not build his house, and have it dry enough for him to live
in, till the year 1547. So that he must be 77 or 78 years of age
before he had his writ of ease.
53.— &{re ©fir mtir % g0tmg tertur.
ANONYMOUS.
[THE whole of the sixteenth century was marked by important changes ot
every kind — political, religious, and social. The wars with France, and the
internal contests of the Roses, were over, and the energy of the nation was
directed to new objects. Trade and commerce were extended ; fresh sources
of wealth were developed ; and new classes of society sprung up into import-
ance, whose riches enabled them to outvie the old landed gentry, but who had
few of their hereditary tastes and habits. Hence the innovation of old customs,
and the decay of ancient manners, to which the gentry themselves were com-
pelled to conform. The following song, which is printed in the " Percy Re-
liques," from an ancient black-letter copy in the " Pepys Collection," is a lament
over the changes which had taken place in the early part of the seventeenth
century, as compared with the days of Queen Elizabeth.]
An old song made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's,
And the queen's old courtier.
318 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.
With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages,
That every quarter paid their old servants their wages,
And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages,
But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks •
With an old buttery hatch, worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen that maintain'd half-a-dozen old cooks ;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old hall hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,
With old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows,
And an old frieze coat to cover his worship's trunk hose ;
And a cup of old sherry to comfort his copper nose;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak and a man dumb;
Like an old courtier, &c.
With an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds,
That never hawk'd nor hunted but in his own grounds,
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,
And when he died gave every child a thousand good pounds;
Like an old courtier, &c.
4
But to his eldest son his house and lands he assign'd,
Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind,
To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind;
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined;
Like a young courtier of the king's,
And the king's young courtier.
Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land,
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command,
ANONYMOUS.] THE OLD AND TflE YOUNG COURTIER. 319
And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land,
And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare,
Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping, or care;
Who buys guady-colour'd fans to play with wanton air,
And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood,
Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good ;
With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,
And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new study stuft full of pamphlets and plays,
And a new chaplain that swears faster than he prays,
With a new buttery hatch that opens once in four or five days,
And a new French cook to devise fine kickshaws and toys;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
And a new journey to London straight we all must be gone,
And leave none to keep house but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone ;
Like a young courtier, &c.
With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete;
With a new coachman, footman, and pages to carry up the meat ;
With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat,
Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat,
Like a young courtier, &c.
With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold,
For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold,
Among our young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.
320 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UOANNA BAILLIE.
54— Cjtt lltobmi granmfc |)0rfs,— I.
[IN subsequent "Half-Hours," we shall give scenes from some of the great
dramatic writers who were contemporary with Shakspere — from Webster
Ben Jonson, Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and others,, as we have
already given scenes from Massinger. The golden age of the English Drama
did not last for more than sixty years. After an interval in which the stage,
in common with many other of the graces and refinements of life, was pro-
scribed by a misdirected though sincere zeal, the Restoration gave us a dege-
nerate and corrupt drama — false in its principles of art, debasing in its gross
licentiousness. The Augustan age, as it used to be called, brought its bril-
liant comedy, in which Wit went hand in hand with Profligacy — meretricious
sisters — and its feeble Tragedy, which rested its claims upon its dissimilarity
to Shakspere. From " Cato" to " Irene" we had no serious drama that was
not essentially based upon French models — declamation taking the place of pas-
sion, and monotonous correctness substituted for poetical fervour. In more
recent times, the imitation of the old drama, or, to speak more correctly,
the knowledge of the principles upon which the old dramatists worked, has
given us a far higher dramatic literature than that which preceded it.
DE MONTFORT.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
[Miss BAILLIE'S " Series of Plays to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the
Mind," was the first great attempt to cast off the frigid conventionalities that
had long encumbered all modern dramatic poetry. Here was a woman of genius
working upon a bold theory. The notion of making the conduct of a drama
wholly rest upon the development of one intense master passion appears to us
a mistake. Passions, as they exist in actual life, and as they are portrayed by
the greatest poetical revealers of man's nature, are complicated and modified
by the antagonism of motives and circumstances. Othello is not simply jeal-
ous— Macbeth not merely ambitious. It is to this cause that we may perhaps
attribute the circumstance that one only, we believe, of Joanna Baillie's plays
has been acted, although they were written for the stage, as every drama must
be that has a dramatic vitality. But, whatever may be the defects of their
scenic construction, they are, in many respects, models of strong and earnest
dialogue, which rejects all cumbrous ornament, and is really poetical through
its unaffected simplicity. This was a revolution in dramatic composition. It
was at the beginning of the present century that these " Plays on the Pas-
sions " v.ere published. Their authoress lived to see many changes in literary
reputation ; but none in which she was not recognised with the honours which
very few can permanently win and wear. She died on February 23, 1851,
aged 89.]
JOANNA BAILLIE.] THE MODERN DRAMA TIC FOE TS. 321
"De Monfort," from which the following scene is extracted, is founded
upon the passion of hatred. De Monfort has fostered, from early years, a
hatred of Rezenvelt — a hatred which he feels to be unjust and at variance with
his own better nature. His noble sister, Jane de Monfort, thus struggles to
expel the demon which torments and finally destroys him : —
De Mon. No more, my sister, urge me not again ;
My secret troubles cannot be reveal'd.
From all participation of its thoughts
My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented.
Jane. What ! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturbed,
In timid silence, whilst, with yearning heart,
I turn aside to weep ? Oh, no, De Monfort !
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.
De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee.
Jane. Then fie upon it ! fie upon it, Monfort !
There was a time when e'en with murder stain'd,
Had it been possible that such dire deed
Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,
Thou would st have told it me.
De Mon. So would I now — but ask of this no more.
All other troubles but the one I feel
I had disclosed to thee. I pray thee spare me.
It is the secret weakness of my nature.
Jane. Then secret let it be; I urge no further.
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,
So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood,
Like two young trees, whose boughs, in early strength,
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together —
I have so long, as if by nature's right,
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,
I thought through life I should have so remain'd,
Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort;
A humbler station will I take by thee;
VOL. i. x
322 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOANNA BAILLIE.
The close attendant of thy wand'ring steps;
The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought;
The soother of those griefs I must not know.
This is mine office now: I ask no more.
De Mon. Oh, Jane ! thou dost constrain me with thy love.
Would I could tell it thee !
Jane. Thou shalt not tell me ! Nay, I '11 stop mine ears,
Nor from the yearnings of affection wring
What shrinks from utt'rance. Let it pass, my brother.
I '11 stay by thee; I '11 cheer thee, comfort thee ;
Pursue with thee the study of some art,
,Or nobler science, that compels the mind
To steady thought progressive, driving forth
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies;
Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again ;
Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
When th' active soul within its lifeless cell
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy press'd
Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed,
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven.
De Mon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me still.
Jane. Ah ! say not so ; for I will haunt thee too,
And be to it so close an adversary,
That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend,
I shall o'ercome it.
De Mon. Thou most gen'rous woman!
Why do I treat thee thus? I should not be —
And yet I cannot — Oh that cursed villain!
He will not let me be the man I would.
Jane. What say'st thou Monfort? Oh! what words are these?
They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts.
I do beseech thee speak !
By the affection thou didst ever bear me ;
By the dear memory of our infant days ;
By kindred living ties; ay, and by those
Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
LANDOJL] THE MODERN DRAMA TIC POETS. 3 23
I do conjure thee speak!
Ha! wilt thou not?
Then, if affection, most unwearied love,
Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
O'er gen'rous man hath more authority,
More rightful power than crown and sceptre give,
I do command thee.
De Monfort, do not thus resist my love.
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees.
Alas ! my brother !
COUNT JULIAN.
LANDOR.
[IN the collected edition of his works Mr Landor says, "None of these
poems of a dramatic form were offered to the stage, being no better than
imaginary conversations in metre." An author knows best what he can ac-
complish ; but there are few modern productions in which the real dramatic
spirit is more developed than in "Count Julian." There are exuberances of
language — lingerings in the primrose paths of verse when the business of the
scene should go right onward. But the whole conception of Julian's character
is magnificent — the lover of his country, who has laid it at the feet of an invader
in the hour of passionate revenge. The agony of his remorse, which no ingra-
titude of the Moorish conqueror can add to, and no kindness can assuage, has
been rarely surpassed.]
Muza. Away with him !
Julian. Slaves ! not before I lift
My voice to Heaven and man. Though enemies
Surround me, and none else ; yet other men
And other times shall hear: the agony
Of an opprest and of a bursting heart
No violence can silence ; at its voice
The trumpet is o'erpower'd, and glory mute,
And peace and war hide all their charms alike.
Surely the guests and ministers of Heaven
Scatter it forth through all the elements,
So suddenly, so widely it extends,
So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering
To ask or fancy how it first arose.
324 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LANDOR,
Muza. Yes, they shall shudder; but will that, henceforth,
Molest my privacy, or shake my power?
Julian. Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy.
The very engine of his hatred checks
The torturer in his transport of revenge,
Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his power,
And raises friends to his worst enemy.
Muza. Where now are thine? Will they not curse the day
That gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral ?
Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee.
Julian. Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould,
For me will weep ; many, alas ! through me !
Already I behold my funeral ;
The turbid cities wave and swell with it,
And wrongs are lost in that day's pageantry:
Opprest and desolate, the countryman
Receives it like a gift; he hastens home,
Shows where the hoof of Moorish horse laid waste
His narrow croft and winter garden plot,
Sweetens with fallen pride his children's lore,
And points their hatred, but applauds their tears.
Justice, who came not up to us through life,
Loves to survey our likeness on our tombs,
When rivalry, malevolence, and wrath,
And every passion that once storm'd around,
Is calm, alike without them as within.
Our very chains make the whole world our own,
Bind those to us who else had pass'd us by,
Those at whose call, brought down to us, the light
Of future ages lives upon our name.
Muza. I may accelerate that meteor's fall,
And quench that idle ineffectual light
Without the knowledge of thy distant world.
Julian. My world and thine are not that distant one.
Is age less wise, less merciful, than grief,
To keep this secret from thee, poor old man?
LANDOR.] THE MODERN DRAMA TIC POETS. 3 2S
Thou canst not lessen, canst not aggravate
My sufferings, canst not shorten or extend
Half a sword's length between my God and me.
I thank thee for that better thought than fame,
Which none, however, who deserve, despise,
Nor lose from view till all things else are lost.
Abdalazis. Julian, respect his age, regard his power.
Many, who fear'd not death, have dragg'd along
A piteous life in darkness and in chains.
Never was man so full of wretchedness,
But something may be suffer'd after all ;
Perhaps in what clings round his breast and helps
To keep the ruin up, which he, amid
His agony and frenzy, overlooks;
But droops upon at last, and clasps, and dies.
Julian. Although a Muza send far underground,
Into the quarry whence the palace rose,
His mangled prey, climes alien and remote
Mark and record the pang. While, overhead,
Perhaps he passes on his favourite steed,
Less heedful of the misery he inflicts
Than of the expiring sparkle from a stone ;
Yet we, alive or dead, have fellow-men,
If ever we have served them, who collect
From prisons and from dungeons our remains,
And bear them in their bosoms to their sons.
Man's only relics are his benefits;
These, be there ages, be there worlds, between,
Retain him in communion with his kind:
Hence is our solace, our security,
Our sustenance, till heavenly truth descends,
Covering with brightness and beatitude
The frail foundations of these humbler hopes,
And, like an angel guiding us, at once
Leaves the loose chain and iron gate behind.
326 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
REMORSE.
COLERIDGE.
[THE " Remorse" of one of the greatest of modern poets was acted with
some success in 1813. It has many of the elements of the most attractive
dramatic composition. Alvar is supposed to have been murdered by his
brother Ordonio ; but he is saved. The guilty man again seeks Alvar's life,
but without knowing him. The following scene, in a dungeon, opens the fifth
act. We scarcely need point out the exquisite beauty of the soliloquy.]
Alvar. And this place my forefathers made for man !
This is the process of our love and wisdom
To each poor brother who offends against us —
Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty!
Is this the only cure1? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot!
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks;
And this is their best cure ! Uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning, and tears
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon
By the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies,
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of evermore deformity !
With other ministrations thou, O Nature !
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child :
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets;
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters!
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
COLERIDGE.] THE MODERN DRAMATIC POETS. 327
His angry spirit heal'd and harmonised
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.
I am chill and weary! Yon rude bench of stone,
In that dark angle, the sole resting-place !
But the self-approving mind is its own light,
And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart
Where love sits brooding, and an honest purpose.
\Retires out of sight.
\A noise at the dungeon-door. It opens, and ORDONIO
enters, with a goblet in his hand.
Ordonio. Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood
I pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto,
And, as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought on thee.
Thou hast conspired against my life and honour,
Hast trick'd me foully; yet I hate thee not.
Why should I hate thee 1 This same world of ours,
'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain,
And we the air-bladders that course up and down,
And joust and tilt in merry tournament;
And when one bubble runs foul of another,
The weaker needs must break.
Alv. I see thy heart!
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye.
Which doth betray thee. Inly tortured man,
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish,
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
And quell each human feeling.
Ord. Feeling! feeling!
The death of a man — the breaking of a bubble —
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes;
But faintness, cold, and hunger — curses on me
If willingly I e'er inflicted them !
Come, take the beverage; this chill place demands it.
[ORDONIO prefers the goblet.
328 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [COLERIDGE.
Alv. Yon insect on the wall,
Which moves this way and that its hundred limbs,
Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
It were an infinitely curious thing!
But it has life, Ordonio! life, enjoyment!
And, by the power of its miraculous will,
Wields all the complex movements of its frame
Unerringly to pleasurable ends!
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim,
I would remove it with an anxious pity !
Ord. What meanest thou?
Alv. There 's poison in the wine.
Ord. Thou hast guess'd right; there's poison in the wine.
There 's poison in 't — which of us two shall drink it?
For one of us must die !
Alv. Whom dost thou think me?
Ord. The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.
Alv. I know him not.
And yet methinks I have heard the name but lately.
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman?
Isidore! Isidore!
Ord. Good ! good ! That lie ! by Heaven it has restored me.
Now I am thy master ! Villain ! thou shalt drink it,
Or die a bitterer death.
Alv. What strange solution
Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears,
And drug them to unnatural sleep?
[ALVAR takes the goblet, and throws it to the ground.
My master !
Ord. Thou mountebank!
Alv. Mountebank and villain !
What, then, art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction!
CHARLES LAMB.] HOGARTH. 329
Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villainy,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
For all thy human brethren — out upon them !
What have they done for thee? Have they given thee peace?
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep ? or made
The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight ?
Art happy when alone 1 Canst walk by thyself
With even step and quiet cheerfulness?
Yet, yet, thou mayst be saved
Ord. Saved? saved?
Ah. One pang 1
Could I call up one pang of true remorse !
55.
CHARLES LAMB.
IT is the fashion with those who cry up the great historical
school in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds
is placed, to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of an
inferior and vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to confound
the painting of subjects in common or vulgar life with the being
a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds
into every picture would alone unvulgarise every subject which
he might choose. Let us take the lowest of his subjects, the print
called Gin Lane. Here is plenty of poverty and low stuff to
disgust upon a superficial view, and accordingly a cold spectator
feels himself immediately disgusted and repelled. I have seen
many turn away from it, not being able to bear it. The same
persons would, perhaps, have looked with great complacency upon
Poussin's celebrated picture of the Plague at Athens. Disease and
death and bewildering terror, in Athenian Garments, are endurable,
and come, as the delicate critics express it, within the " limits of
pleasurable sensation." But the scenes of their own St Giles's,
delineated by their own countryman, are too shocking to think of.
33° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CHARLES LAMB.
Yet if we could abstract our minds from the fascinating colours of
the picture, and forget the coarse execution (in some respects) of
the print, intended as it was to be a cheap plate, accessible to the
poorer sort of people, for whose instruction it was done, I think
we could have no hesitation in conferring the palm of superior
genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with Poussin's
picture. There is more of imagination in it — that power which
draws all things to one — which makes things animate and inani-
mate, beings with their attributes, subjects and their accessories,
take one colour, and serve to one effect. Everything in the print,
to use a vulgar expression, tells. Every part is full of " strange
images of death." It is perfectly amazing and astounding to look
at. Not only the two prominent figures — the woman and the half-
dead man — which are as terrible as anything which Michael Angelo
ever drew, but everything else in the print contributes to bewilder
and stupify, — the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine express it,
tumbling all about in various directions, seem drunk — seem abso-
lutely reeling from the effect of that diabolical spirit of frenzy which
goes forth over the whole composition. To show the poetical and
almost prophetical conception in the artist, one little circumstance
may serve. Not content with the dying and dead figures which
he has strewed in profusion over the proper scene of the action, he
shows you what (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it. Close
by the shell in which, by the direction of the parish beadle, a man
is depositing his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the uni-
versal decay around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in
this wall are seen three figures, which appear to make a part in
some funeral procession which is passing by on the other side of
the wall, out of the sphere of the composition. This extending of
the interest beyond the bounds of the subject could only have been
conceived by a great genius. Shakspere, in his description of the
painting of the Trojan War, in his " Tarquin and Lucrece," has
introduced a similar device, where the painter made a part stand
for the whole : —
" For much imaginary work was there,
Conceits deceitful, so compact, so kind,
CHARLES LAMB.] HOGARTH 331
That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Grip'd in an armed hand ; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind :
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined."
This he well calls imaginary work, where the spectator must
meet the artist in his conceptions half-way; and it is peculiar to
the confidence of high genius alone to trust so much to spectators
or readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct and full, as
they require an object to be made out to themselves before they
can comprehend it
When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate
to say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of
system alone, and of that rage for classification, by which, in
matters of taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing instead of
arranging our ideas, that would make us concede to the work of
Poussin above mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name
of a grand serious composition.
We are for ever deceiving ourselves with names and theories.
We call one man a great historical painter, because he has taken
for his subjects kings or great men, or transactions over which
time has thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of
common life, and set him down in our minds for an artist of an
inferior class, without reflecting whether the quantity of thought
shown by the latter may not much more than level the distinction
which their mere choice of subjects may seem to place between
them ; or whether, in fact, from that very common life a great
artist may not extract as deep an interest as another man from
that which we are pleased to call history.
I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of
Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow
and stifle the merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to mere
names and classifications we should be content to sacrifice one of
the greatest ornaments of England.
I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether
in the countenances of his staring and grinning Despair, which he
332 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [CHARLES LAMB.
has given us for the faces of Ugolino and dying Beaufort, there be
anything comparable to the expression which Hogarth has put
into the face of his broken-down Rake, in the last plate but one
of the "Rake's Progress," where a letter from the manager is
brought to him to say that his play "will not do !" Here all is easy,
natural, undistorted; but withal, what a mass of woe is here ac-
cumulated!— the long history of a mis-spent life is compressed
into the countenance as plainly as the series of plates before had
told it ; here is no attempt at Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze
the beholder, no grinning at the antique bed-posts, no face-
making, or consciousness of the presence of spectators in or out
of the picture, but grief kept to a man's self — a face retiring from
notice with the shame which great anguish sometimes brings with
it — a final leave taken of hope — the coming on of vacancy and
stupefaction — a beginning alienation of mind looking like tran-
quillity. Here is matter for the mind of the beholder to
feed on for the hour together — matter to feed and fertilise the
mind. It is too real to admit one thought about the power of the
artist who did it. When we compare the expression in subjects
which so fairly admit of comparison, and find the superiority so
clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the mere contemptible
difference of the scene of it being laid, in the one case in our
Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and in the other in the State Prison
of Pisa, or the bedroom of a cardinal — or that the subject of the
one has never been authenticated, and the other is matter of
history — so weigh down the real points of the comparison, as to
induce us to rank the artist who has chosen the one scene or sub-
ject (though confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the soul
of his art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius
(who has happened to make choice of the other) with something
like disgrace]
MONTAIGNE.] OF THE INCONVENIENCE OF GREATNESS. 333
56. — ®i fyt Jnr0ttixeniena 0f <8r*atius&.
MONTAIGNE.
[THE Essays of Michel, the Lord of Montaigne, offer a signal example of the
power of genius to convert what belongs to the individual into matters of uni-
versal and lasting interest. It is nearly three hundred years ago that these
Essays were written. This author was a gentleman living in the retirement of
a remote province of France, while the violent feuds of Catholic and Protest-
ant were going on all around him. Letters were little cultivated ; the language
was scarcely formed. Yet he produced a book which can never be antiquated,
because it reflects, not the conventional opinions of his own semi -barbarous
times, but the frank and genuine thoughts of his own mind upon large questions
which affect humanity in every country and every age. There are things in
Montaigne's writings that a good man would rather not read ; but their gene-
ral tendency is to cherish a sound practical philosophy, and to cultivate benevo-
lent feelings. There is a capital English translation of Montaigne by Cotton,
the friend of Isaac Walton; and an earlier one by Florio, an Italian, who
lived in England at the end of the sixteenth century. Montaigne was born in
1533, and died in 1592.]
Since we cannot attain unto it, let us revenge ourselves by rail-
ing at it; and yet it is not absolutely railing against anything to
proclaim its defects, because they are in all things to be found,
how beautiful or how much to be coveted soever. It has in gene-
ral this manifest advantage, that it can grow less when it pleases,
and has very near the absolute choice of both the one and the
other condition. For a man does not fall from all heights ; there
are several from which one may descend without falling down. It
does indeed appear to me that we value it at too high a rate, and
also over-value the resolution of those whom we have either seen
or heard have contemned it, or displaced themselves of their own
accord. Its essence is not evidently so commodious, that a man
may not without a miracle refuse it : I find it a very hard thing to
undergo misfortunes; but to be content with a competent mea-
sure of fortune, and to avoid greatness, I think a very easy matter.
'Tis, methinks, a virtue to which I, who am none of the wisest,
could, without any great endeavour, arrive. What, then, is to be
expected from them that would yet put into consideration the
glory attending this refusal, wherein there may lurk worse ambi-
334 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [MONTAIGNE.
tion than even in the desire itself and fruition of greatness 1 . For-
asmuch as ambition never comports itself better according to
itself than when it proceeds by obscure and unfrequented ways, I
incite my courage to patience, but I rein it as much as I can to-
wards desire. I have as much to wish for as another, and allow
my wishes as much liberty and indiscretion : but yet it never be-
fell me to wish for either empire or royalty, for the eminency of
those high and commanding fortunes. I do not aim that way ;
I love myself too well. When I think to grow greater, 'tis but
very moderately, and by a compelled and timorous advancement,
such as is proper for me; in resolution, in prudence, in health, in
beauty, and even in riches too. But this supreme reputation, and
this mighty authority, oppress my imagination; and, quite contrary
to some others, I should, perad venture, rather choose to be the
second or third in Perigourd, than the first at Paris — at least, with-
out lying, the third than the first at Paris. I would neither dis-
pute, a miserable unknown, with a nobleman's porter, nor make
crowds open in adoration as I pass. I am trained up to a moderate
condition, as well by my choice as fortune ; and have made it ap-
pear in the whole conduct of my life and enterprises, that I have
rather avoided, than otherwise, the climbing above the degree of
fortune wherein God has placed me by my birth; all natural con-
stitution is equally just and easy. My soul is so sneaking and
mean, that I measure not good fortune by the height, but by the
facility. But, if my heart be not great enough, 'tis open enough
to make amends at any one's request freely to lay open its weak-
ness. Should any one put me upon comparing the life of L.
Thorius Balbus, a brave man, handsome, learned, healthful, un-
derstanding, and abounding in all sorts of conveniences and plea-
sures, leading a quiet life, and all his own; his mind well pre-
pared against death, superstition, pains, and other incumbrances
of human necessity; dying at last in battle with his sword in his
hand, for the defence of his country, on the one part; and on the
other part, the life of M. Regulus, so great and as high as is known
to every one, and his end admirable ; the one without name and
without dignity, the other exemplary and glorious to a wonder : I
MONTAIGNE.] OF THE INCONVENIENCE OF GREATNESS. 335
should doubtless say as Cicero did, could I speak as well as he.
But if I was to touch it in my own phrase, I should then also say,
that the first is as much according to my capacity and desire,
which I conform to my capacity, as the second is far beyond it ;
that I could not approach the last but with veneration, the other
I would willingly attain by custom. But let us return to our tem-
poral greatness, from which we have digressed. I disrelish all
dominion, whether active or passive. Otanes, one of the seven
who had right to pretend to the kingdom of Persia, did as I should
willingly have done ; which was, that he gave up to his concur-
rents his right of being promoted to it, either by election or by
lot, provided that he and his might live in the empire out of all
authority and subjection, those of the ancient laws excepted, and
might enjoy all liberty that was not prejudicial to them, as impatient
of commanding as of being commanded. The most painful and
difficult employment in the world, in my opinion, is worthily to dis->
charge the office of a king. I excuse more of their mistakes than
men commonly do, in consideration of the intolerable weight of
their function, which does astonish me. 'Tis hard to keep mea-
sure in so immeasurable a power. Yet so it is, that it is, to those
who are not the best-natured men, a singular incitement to virtue
to be seated in a place where you cannot do the least good that
shall not be put upon record; and where the least benefit redounds
to so many men; and where your talent of administration, like
that of preachers, does principally address itself to the people, no
very exact judge, easy to deceive, and easily content. There are
few things wherein we can give a sincere judgment, by reason that
there are few wherein we have not in some sort a particular inte-
rest. Superiority and inferiority, dominion and subjection, are
bound to a natural envy and contest, and must necessarily per-
petually intrench upon one another. I neither believe the one nor
the other touching the rights of the adverse party; let reason,
therefore, which is inflexible and without passion, determine.
'Tis not above a month ago that I read over two Scotch authors
contending upon this subject; of which, he who stands for the
people makes kings to be in a worse condition than a carter; and
336 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MONTAIGNR
he who writes for monarchy places him some degrees above God
Almighty in power and sovereignty. Now the inconveniency of
greatness, that I have made choice of to consider in this place,
upon some occasion that has lately put it into my head, is this :
there is not peradventure anything more pleasant in the com-
merce of men than the trials that we make against one another,
out of emulation of honour and valour, whether in the exercises
of the body or in those of the mind ; wherein the sovereign great-
ness can have no true part. And in earnest I have often thought,
that out of force of respect men have used princes disdainfully
and injuriously in that particular. For the thing I was infinitely
offended at in my childhood, that they who exercised with me
forbore to do their best because they found me unworthy of their
utmost endeavour, is what we see happen to them every day,
every one finding himself unworthy to contend with them. If we
discover that they have the least passion to have the better, there
is no one who will not make it his business to give it them, and
who will not rather betray his own glory than offend theirs; and
will therein employ so much force only as is necessary to advance
their honour. What share have they, then, in the engagement
wherein every one is on their side ? Methinks I see those pala-
dins of ancient times presenting themselves to jousts, with en-
chanted arms and bodies; Crisson, running against Alexander,
purposely missed his blow, and made a fault in his career; Alex-
ander chid him for it, but he ought to have had him whipped.
Upon this consideration, Carneades said, that the sons of princes
learned nothing right but to ride the great horse ; by reason that in
all their exercises every one bends and yields to them : but a horse,
that is neither a flatterer nor a courtier, throws the son of a king
with no more remorse than he would do that of a porter. Homer
was compelled to consent that Venus, so sweet and delicate as
she was, should be wounded at the battle of Troy, thereby to
ascribe courage and boldness to her; qualities that cannot possibly
be in those who are exempt from danger. The gods are made to
be angry, to fear, to run away, to be jealous, to grieve, and to be
transported with passions, to honour them with the virtues
MONTAIGNE.] OF THE INCONVENIENCE OF GREATNESS. 337
that amongst us are built upon these imperfections. Who does
not participate in the hazard and difficulty, can pretend no inter-
est in the honour and pleasure that are the consequents of hazar-
dous actions. 'Tis a pity a man should be so potent that all things
must give way to him. Fortune therein sets you too remote from
society, and places you in too great a solitude. The easiness and
mean facility of making all things bow under you, is an enemy to
all sorts of pleasure. This is to slide, not to go ; this is to sleep,
and not to live. Conceive man accompanied with omnipotency,
you throw him into an abyss : he must beg disturbance and oppo-
sition as an alms. His being and his good is indigence. Their
good qualities are dead and lost; for they are not to be perceived,
but by comparison, and we put them out of it : they have little
knowledge of the true praise, having their ears deafed with so
continual and uniform an approbation. Have they to do with
the meanest of all their subjects ? they have no means to take any
advantage of him, if he say, 'tis because he is my king, he thinks
he has said enough to express that he therefore suffered himself to
be overcome. This quality stifles and consumes the other true
and essential qualities. They are involved in the royalty, and
leave them nothing to recommend themselves withal, but actions
that directly concern themselves, and that merely respect the
function of their place. 'Tis so much to be a king, that he only
is so by being so ; the strange lustre that environs him, conceals
and shrouds him from us : our sight is there repelled and dissi-
pated, being stopped and rilled by this prevailing light. The
senate awarded the prize of eloquence to Tiberius : he refused it,
supposing that, though it had been just, he could derive no advan-
tage from a judgment so partial, and that was so little free to
judge. As we give them all advantages of honour, so do we soothe
and authorise all their vices and defects, not only by approbation,
but by imitation also. Every one of Alexander's followers carried
their heads on one side, as he did; and the flatterers of Dionysius
run against one another in his presence, stumbled at, and over-
turned whatever was under foot, to show that they were as pur-
blind as he. Natural imperfections have sometimes also served
VOL. L
338 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [MONTAIGNB.
to recommend a man to favour. I have seen deafness affected :
and, because the master hated his wife, Plutarch has seen his
courtiers repudiate theirs, whom they loved : and, which is yet
more, uncleanness and all manner of dissoluteness has been in
fashion; as also disloyalty, blasphemies, cruelty, heresy, supersti-
tion, irreligion, effeminacy, and worse if worse there be. And by
an example yet more dangerous than that of Mithridates3 flatterers,
who, by how much their master pretended to the honour of a good
physician, came to him to have incision and cauteries made in their
limbs ; for these others suffered the soul, a more delicate and noble
part, to be cauterised. But to end where I begun: the Emperor
Adrian, disputing with the philosopher Favorinus about the inter-
pretation of some word, Favorinus soon yielded him the victory;
for which his friends rebuking him, — "You talk simply," said he;
"would you not have him wiser than I, who commands thirty
legions?" Augustus wrote verses against Asinius Pollio, and I,
said Pollio, say nothing, for it is not prudence to write in contest
with him who has power to proscribe : and he had reason : for
Dionysius, because he could not equal Philoxenus in poesy, and
Plato in discourse, condemned one to the Quarries, and sent the
other to be sold for a slave into the island
57.—% Jfaif^W flimsier.
THOMAS FULLER.
[THOMAS FULLER — the quaint, shrewd, imaginative, and witty Thomas
Fuller — was born in 1608; he died in 1661. His writings are exceedingly
numerous ; although he was a man of action in times which made violent par-
tisans. An adherent to the Royalist cause, he was deprived of all preferment,
and his little property in books and manuscripts seized upon, in the early part
of the contest between the King and Parliament. But he subsequently held
various livings, and was tolerated even by those to whom he was politically
opposed. The following is extracted from his " Holy State."]
We suppose him not brought up by hand only in his own
country studies, but that he hath sucked of his mother University,
and thoroughly learnt the arts ; not as St Rumball, who is said to
THOMAS FULLER.] THE FAITHFUL MINISTER. 339
have spoken as soon as he was born, doth he preach as soon as
he is matriculated. Conceive him now a graduate in arts, and
entered into orders, according to the solemn form of the Church
of England, and presented by some patron to a pastoral charge,
or place equivalent; and then let us see how well he dischargeth
his office.
MAXIMS.
I. He endeavours to get the general love and good-will of his
parish. — This he doth, not so much to make a benefit of them, as
a benefit for them, that his ministry may be more effectual; other-
wise he may preach his own heart out, before he preacheth any-
thing into theirs. The good conceit of the physician is half a
cure; and his practice will scarce be happy where his person is
hated. Yet he humours them not in his doctrine, to get their
love; for such a spaniel is worse than a dumb dog. He shall
sooner get their good-will by walking uprightly, than by crouching
and creeping. If pious living, and painful labouring in his calling,
will not win their affections, he counts it gain to lose them. As
for those who causelessly hate him, he pities and prays for them :
and such there will be. I should suspect his preaching had no
salt in it, if no galled horse did wince.
II. He is strict in ordering his conversation. — As for those who
cleanse blurs with blotted fingers, they make it the worse. It was
said of one who preached very well, and lived very ill, " that when
he was out of the pulpit, it was pity he should ever go into it ; and
when he was in the pulpit, it was pity he should ever come out of
it" But our minister lives sermons. And yet I deny not, but
dissolute men, like unskilful horsemen, who open a gate on the
wrong side, may, by the virtue of their office, open heaven for
others, and shut themselves out
III. His behaviour towards his people is grave and courteous. —
Not too austere and retired ; which is laid to the charge of good
Mr Hooper the martyr, that his rigidness frighted the people from
consulting with him. "Let your light," saith Christ, "shine before
men;" whereas over-reservedness makes the brightest virtue burn
dim. Especially he detesteth affected gravity (which is rather on
340 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [THOMAS FULLER.
men than in them,) whereby some belie their register-book, ante-
date their age to seem far older than they are, and plait and set
their brows in an affected sadness. Whereas St Anthony the
monk might have been known among hundreds of his order by
his cheerful face, he having ever (though a most mortified man) a
merry countenance.
IV. He doth not clash God's ordinances together about precedency.
— Not making odious comparisons betwixt prayer and preaching,
preaching and catechising, public prayer and private, premeditate
prayer and ex tempore. When, at the taking of New Carthage in
Spain, two soldiers contended about the mural crown, due to him
who first climbed the walls, so that the whole army was thereupon
in danger of division; Scipio the general said he knew that they
both got up the wall together, and so gave the scaling crown to
them both. Thus our minister compounds all controversies
betwixt God's ordinances, by praising them all, practising them
all, and thanking God for them all. He counts the reading of
Common Prayers to prepare him the better for preaching; and,
as one said, if he did first toll the bell on one side, it made it
afterwards ring out the better in his sermons.
V. He carefully catechiseth his people in the elements of religion.
— Except he hath (a rare thing!) a flock without lambs, of all old
sheep; and yet even Luther did not scorn to profess himself
discipulum catechismi — "a scholar of the catechism." By this
catechising the gospel first got ground of Popery: and let not
our religion, now grown rich, be ashamed of that which first gave
it credit and set it up, lest the Jesuits beat us at our own weapon.
Through the want of this catechising, many, who are well skilled
in some dark out-corners of divinity, have lost themselves in the
beaten road thereof.
VI. He will not offer to God of that which costs him nothing —
but takes pains aforehand for his sermons. Demosthenes never
made any oration on the sudden; yea, being called upon, he
never rose up to speak except he had well studied the matter:
and he was wont to say, " that he showed how he honoured and
reverenced the people of Athens, because he was careful what he
THOMAS FULLER.] THE FAITHFUL MINISTER. 341
spake unto them." Indeed, if our minister be surprised with a
sudden occasion, he counts himself rather to be excused than
commended, if, premeditating only the bones of his sermon, he
clothes it with flesh ex tempore. As for those whose long custom
hath made preaching their nature, [so] that they can discourse
sermons without study, he accounts their examples rather to be
admired than imitated.
VII. Having brought his sermon into his head, he labours to bring
it into his heart, before he preaches it to his people. — Surely, that
preaching which comes from the soul most works on the soul.
Some have questioned ventriloquy (when men strangely speak out
of their bellies) whether it can be done lawfully or no: might I
coin the word cordiloquy, when men draw the doctrines out of
their hearts, sure, all would count this lawful and commendable.
VIII. He chiefly reproves the reigning sins of the time and place
he lives in. — We may observe that our Saviour never inveighed
against idolatry, usury, Sabbath-breaking, amongst the Jews. Not
that these were not sins, but they were not practised so much in
that age, wherein wickedness was spun with a finer thread; and
therefore Christ principally bent the drift of His preaching against
spiritual pride, hypocrisy, and traditions, then predominant
amongst the people. Also our minister confuteth no old heresies
which time hath confuted; nor troubles his auditory with such
strange hideous cases of conscience, that it is more hard to find
the case than the resolution. In public reproving of sin, he ever
whips the vice, and spares the person.
IX. He doth not only move the bread of life, and toss it up and
down in all generalities, but also breaks it into particular directions. —
Drawing it down to cases of conscience, that a man may be war-
ranted in his particular actions, whether they be lawful or not.
And he teacheth people their lawful liberty, as well as their
restraints and prohibitions; for amongst men, it is as ill taken to
turn back favours, as to disobey commands.
X. The places of Scripture he quotes are pregnant and pertinent. —
As for heaping up of many quotations, it smacks of a vain osten-
tation of memory. Besides, it is as impossible that the hearer
342 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [THOMAS FULLER.
should profitably retain them all, as that the preacher hath
seriously perused them all; yea, whilst the auditors stop their
attention, and stoop down to gather an impertinent quotation, the
sermon runs on, and they lose more substantial matter.
XI. His similes and illustrations are always familiar, never con-
temptible.— Indeed, reasons are the pillars of the fabric of a ser-
mon; but similitudes are the windows which give the best lights.
He avoids such stories whose mention may suggest bad thoughts
to the auditors, and will not use a light comparison to make
thereof a grave application, for fear lest his poison go farther than
his antidote.
XII. He provideth not only wholesome but plentiful food for his
people. — Almost incredible was the painfulness of Baronius, the
compiler of the voluminous "Annals of the Cburch," who, for
thirty years together, preached three or four times a week to the
people. As for our minister, he preferreth rather to entertain his
people with wholesome cold meat which was on the table before,
than with that which is hot from the spit, raw and half-roasted.
Yet, in repetition of the same sermon, every edition hath a new
addition, if not of new matter, of new affections. " Of whom,"
saith St Paul, "we have told you OFTEN, and NOW tell you
weeping," (Phil. iii. 18.)
XIII. He makes not that wearisome which should ever be welcome.
— Wherefore his sermons are of an ordinary length, except on
an extraordinary occasion. What a gift had John Halsebach,
Professor at Vienna, in tediousness ! who, being to expound the
Prophet Isaiah to his auditors, read twenty-one years on the first
chapter, and yet finished it not.
XIV. He counts the success of his ministry the greatest preferment. —
Yet herein God hath humbled many painful pastors, in making
them to be clouds, to rain, not over Arabia the Happy, but over
the Stony, or Desert: so that they may complain with the herds-
man in the poet : —
"ITeu mihi, quam pingui macer est mihi taurus in atvot"
"My starveling bull,
Ah woe is me I
THOMAS FULLER.] THE FAITHFUL MINISTER. 343
In pasture full,
How lean is he ! "
Yet such pastors may comfort themselves, that great is their re-
ward with God in heaven, who measures it, not by their success,
but endeavours. Besides, though they see not, their people may
feel benefit by their ministry. Yea, the preaching of the word in
some places is like the planting of woods, where, though no profit
is received for twenty years together, it comes afterwards. And
grant that God honours thee not to build His temple in thy parish,
yet thou mayest, with David, provide metal and materials for
Solomon thy successor to build it with.
XV. To sick folks he comes sometimes before he is sent for — As
counting his vocation a sufficient calling. None of his flock
shall want the extreme unction of prayer and counsel Against the
communion, especially, he endeavours that Janus's temple be
shut in the whole parish, and that all be made friends.
XVI. He is never plaintiff in any suit but to be right's defendant. — If
his dues be detained from him, he grieves more for his parishioners'
bad conscience than his own damage. He had rather suffer ten
times in his profit than once in his title, where not only his per-
son, but posterity, is wronged; and then he proceeds fairly and
speedily to a trial, that he may not vex and weary others, but right
himself. During his suit he neither breaks off nor slacks offices
of courtesy to his adversary; yea, though he loseth his suit, he will
not also lose his charity. Chiefly he is respectful to his patron;
that as he presented him freely to his living, so he constantly pre-
sents his patron in his prayers to God.
XVII. He is moderate in his tenets and opinions. — Not that he
gilds over lukewarmness in matters of moment with the title of
" discretion; " but, withal, he is careful not to entitle violence, in in-
different and inconcerning matters, to be zeal Indeed, men of
extraordinary tallness, though otherwise little deserving, are made
porters to lords; and those of unusual littleness are made ladies'
dwarfs: whilst men of moderate stature may want masters. Thus
many, notorious for extremities, may find favourers to prefer them;
whilst moderate men in the middle truth may want any to ad-
344 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [THOMAS FULLER.
vance them. But what saith the apostle 1 — " If in this life only we
have hope, we are of all men most miserable," (i Cor. xv. 19.)
XVIII. He is sociable and willing to do any courtesy for his
neighbour-ministers. — He willingly communicates his knowledge
unto them. Surely, the gifts and graces of Christians lay in com-
mon, till base envy made the first enclosure. He neither slighteth
his inferiors, nor repineth at those who in parts and credit are
above him. He loveth the company of his neighbour-ministers.
Sure, as ambergris is nothing so sweet in itself, as when it is com-
pounded with other things ; so both godly and learned men are
gainers by communicating themselves to their neighbours.
XIX. He is careful in the discreet ordering of his own family. —
A good minister, and a good father, may well agree together.
When a certain Frenchman came to visit Melancthon, he found
him in his stove, with one hand dandling his child in the swad-
dling clouts, and in the other hand holding a book and reading
it. Our minister also is as hospitable as his estate will permit, and
makes every alms two, by his cheerful giving it. He loveth also
to live in a well-repaired house, that he may serve God therein
more cheerfully. A clergyman who built his house from the
ground, wrote in it this counsel to his successor: —
*' If thou dost find
A house built to thy mind
Without thy cost,
Serve thou the more
God and the poor j
My labour is not lost."
XX. Lying on his death-bed he bequeaths to each of his parishioners
his precepts and example for a legacy. — And they, in requital, erect
every one a monument for him in their hearts. He is so far from
that base jealousy that his memory should be outshined by a
brighter successor, and from that wicked desire that his people may
find his worth by the worthlessness of him that succeeds, that he
doth heartily pray to God to provide them a better pastor after
his decease. As for outward estate, he commonly lives in too
bare pasture to die fat. It is well if he hath gathered any flesh,
being more in blessing than bulk.
VARIOUS.]
FLOWERS.
345
"O Proserpina.
For the flowers now, that frighted, thgu lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon ! "
58.—
IT has been objected to Milton that in his " Lycidas" he enumerates among
" vernal flowers " many of those which are the offspring of Midsummer, and of
a still more advanced season. The passage to which the objection applies is
the following : —
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crowtoe and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
"With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
346 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
A little consideration will show that Milton could distinguish between the
flowers of Spring and the flowers of Summer. The " Sicilian Muse" is to
" call the vales, and bid them hither cast their bells, and flowerets of a thou-
sand hues." There were not only to be cast the " quaint enamell'd eyes" of
" vernal flowers," but " every flower that sad embroidery wears ;" or, in the
still clearer language of the original manuscript of the poem, " every bud that
sorrow's livery wears." The " vernal flowers" were to indicate the youth of
Lycidas ; the flowers of ' ' sorrow's livery " were emblems of his untimely death.
The intention of Milton is distinctly to be traced in his first conception of the
passage. After the " rathe [early] primrose," we have,
And that sad flower that strove
To write his own woes on the vermeil grain.
This is the hyacinth, the same as " the tufted crowtoe." He proceeds with
more of sorrow's livery —
Next add Narcissus, that still weeps in vain.
Then come " the woodbine," and " the pansy freak'd with jet." In the ori-
ginal passage, " the musk-rose" is not found at all. Milton's strewments for
the bier of Lycidas, we hold are not confined to vernal flowers, and therefore
it is unnecessary to elevate Shakspere at the expense of Milton. " While
Milton and the other poets had strung together in their descriptions the blos-
soms of Spring and the flowers of Summer, Shakspere has placed in one group
those only which may be found in bloom at the same time." * The writer
alludes to the celebrated passage in the " Winter's Tale," where Perdita, at
the summer sheep-shearing, bestows the "flowers of middle summer'' upon
her guests " of middle age," and wishes for "some flowers o' the Spring''
that might become the " time of day " of her fairest virgin friends : —
O Proserpina,
For the flowers, now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon ! daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one! Oh! these I lack
To make you garlands of. SHAKSPERE.
Patterson on the Insects mentioned by Shakspere.
VARIOUS.] FLOWERS. 347
This is indeed poetry founded upon the most accurate observation — the perfect
combination of elegance and truth.
The exquisite simplicity of our first great poet's account of his love for the
daisy may well follow Shakspere's Spring-garland. Rarely could he move
from his books ; no game could attract him ; but when the flowers began to
spring,
Farewell my book and my devotion.
Above all the flowers in the mead he loved most
These flowres white and red,
Such that men callen Daisies in our town ;
To them have I so great affection,
As I said erst, when comen is the May,
That in my bed there daweth me no day
That I n'am up and walking in the mead
To see this flower against the sunne spread,
When it upriseth early by the morrow;
That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow ;
So glad am I when that I have presence
Of it, to doen it all reverence.
Chaucer welcomes the "eye of the day" when "the month of May is
comen." Another true poet has immortalised that solitary mountain daisy
that he turned down with his plough on a cold April morning : —
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
Thou 's met me in an evil hour; High sheltering woods and wa's maun
For I maun crush amang the stoure shield ;
Thy slender stem. But thou, beneath the random bield
To spare thee now is past my power, O' clod or stane,
Thou bonnie gem. Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.
Alas ! it 's no thy neiboor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet, There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Wi' speckled breast, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
When upward springing, blithe, to In humble guise ;
greet But now the share uptears thy bed,
The purpling east. And low thou lies !
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Such is the fate of artless maid,
Upon thy early, humble birth ; Sweet floweret of the rural shade !
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth By love's simplicity betray'd,
Amid the storm, And guileless trust,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Thy tender form. Low i' the dust.
348 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
Such is the fate of simple bard, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! He, ruin'd, sink !
Unskilful he to note the card Eyen thou who moum,st ^ ^ ^
Of prudent lore, ^ .
Till billows rage and gales blow hard That ^ ^ thine-no distant date ;
Andwhelmhnnoer! Stem Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Such fate to suffering worth is given, Full on thy bloom,
Who long with wants and woes has Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's
striven, weight
By human pride or cunning driven Shall be thy doom !
To misery's brink, BURNS.
ROBERT HERRICK is, in his quaint way, a master of his art :-—
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see We have short time to stay, as you,
You haste away so soon ; We have as short a spring ;
As yet the early-rising sun As quick a growth to meet decay,
Has not attain'd his noon. As you, or anything :
Stay, stay, We die
Until the hasting day As your hours do, and dry
Has run Away,
But to the even-song; Like to the summer's rain
And, having pray'd together, we Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Will go with you along. Ne'er to be found again.
HERRICK.
Flowers and love are naturally associated : —
Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear
Within your palie faces,
Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind,
That plays amidst the plain,
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my ladie's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places !
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,
Your honours of the flowrie meads I pray,
You pretty daughters of the earth and sun,
With mild and sweetly breathing straight display
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone ! RALEIGH.
Another of "the banished minds" has a love smile for the small flower
bursting its " frosty prison :" —
All as the hungry winter-starved earth,
Where she by nature labours towards her birth,
VARIOUS.] FLOWERS. 349
Still as the day upon the dark world creeps,
One blossom forth after another peeps,
Till the small flower, whose root is now unbound,
Get from the frosty prison of the ground,
Spreading the leaves unto the powerful noon,
Deck'd in fresh colours, smiles upon the sun.
Never unquiet care lodge in that breast
Where but one thought of Rosamond did rest. DRAYTON.
But there are loftier feelings associated with flowers. Love, in some poetical
minds, rises into devotion to the great Source of all beauty and joy. Never
were spring-flowers the parents of holier thoughts that are found in this poem
ot HERBERT : —
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are Thy returns ! even as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like snow in May;
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart
Could have recover'd greenness ? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown
Where they, together, all the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are Thy wonders, Lord of power !
Killing, and quick'ning, bringing down to hell,
And up to heaven, in an hour ;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss, "This, or that, is;"
Thy word is all ; if we could spell.
Oh, that I once past changing were,
Fast in Thy Paradise, where no flower can wither 1
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Off ring at heaven, growing and groaning thither ;
Nor doth my flower want a spring shower ;
My sins and I joining together.
But, while I grow in a straight line
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline.
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone
Where all things burn, when Thou dost turn,
And the least frown of Thine is shown ?
350 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. fVARiovs.
And now in age I bud again :
After so many deaths I live and write :
I once more smell the dew and rain;
And relish versing. O my only Light !
It cannot be that I am he
On whom Thy tempests fell all night !
These are Thy wonders, Lord of love !
To make us see we are but flowers that glide,
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide ;
Who would be more, swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. HERBERT.
By the side of our old poet of the English Church may we worthily place the
devotional poem on Flowers of a Transatlantic bard : —
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call'd the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As astrologers and seers of eld ;
Yet not so wrapp'd about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above ;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of His love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation
Written all over this great world of ours ;
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth — these golden flowers.
And the poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part
Of the selfsame, universal being,
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining ;
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay.
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night !
VARIOUS.] FLOWERS. 35 1
These in flowers and men are more than seeming,
Workings are they of the selfsame powers,
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself, and in the flowers.
Everywhere about us are they glowing,
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ;
Others, their blue eyes with tear o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ;
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield :
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ;
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone,
But on old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tomb of heroes, carved in stone;
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
In ancestral house, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ;
In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.
And with child-like, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand ;
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land. LONGFELLOW.
Go, then, into the fields, when the snow melts and the earth is unbound.
Pry into the hedges for the first primrose : see if there be a daisy nestling in
the short grass ; look for the little Celandine : —
Ere a leaf is on the bush;
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we 've little warmth, or none. WORDSWORTH.
352 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
The most imaginative and harmonious of poets has grouped the most
charming of flowers around his " Sensitive Plant :"
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere;
And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want,
As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mix'd with fresh odour sent
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied windflowers and tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness.
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale,
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green ;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
Of music so delicate, soft, a,nd intense,
It was felt like an odour within the sense ;
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
Which unveil'd the depth of her glowing breast,
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ;
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
As a Moenad, its moonlight-colour'd cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. • SHELLEY.
VARIOUS.] FLOWERS. 353
The "Field Flowers" of the poet of "Hope" beautifully contrast with the
" Garden Flowers of Shelley :"—
Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.
I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note,
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles ye tell,
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.
Even now what affections the violet awakes ;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water lily restore ;
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled the shore ?
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,
Had scathed my existence's bloom ;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb. CAMPBELL.
We conclude with one of the most graceful poems of an age from which a
taste for the highest poetry was fast vanishing : —
Go, lovely rose ! In deserts, where no men abide,
Tell her that wastes her time and me, Thou must have uncommended
That now she knows died.
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be. Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired :
Tell her that 's young, Bid her come forth,
And shuns to have her graces spied, Suffer herself to be desired,
That hadst thou sprung • And not blush so to be admired.
VOL. I. z
354 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GREEN.
Then die i that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. WALLER.
59.—
GREEN.
QOSEPH HENRY GREEN was one of the most distinguished surgeons and
anatomists of our own times. In a course of Lectures delivered by him at
the Royal College of Surgeons, and published in his work entitled "Vital
Dynamics," he has grappled with the difficult subject of Instinct in a mannel
at once original and conclusive. This passage of the Lecture is reprinted in
the Appendix to Coleridge's "Aids to Reflection." Mr Green, born in 1791,
was the son of a London merchant. He was a pupil of the famous Cline,
and gradually made his way to the highest honours of his profession, having
been twice president to the College of Surgeons. For seventeen years he was
the intimate friend of Coleridge. Mr John Simon has written a most interest-
ing memoir of the life of Mr Green, from which we may collect how high were
those qualities which led Coleridge to make him trustee for his children, and
to describe him in his will as "the man most intimate with their father's intel-
lectual labours and aspirations." Mr Green died in December 1863.]
What is instinct ? As I am not quite of Bonnet's opinion, " that
philosophers will in vain torment themselves to define instinct
until they have spent some time in the head of the animal without
actually being that animal," I shall endeavour to explain the use
of the term. I shall not think it necessary to controvert the
opinions which have been offered on this subject — whether the an-
cient doctrine of Descartes, who supposed that animals were mere
machines; or the modern one of Lamarck, who attributes instincts
to habits impressed upon the organs of animals by the constant
efflux of the nervous fluid to these organs, to which it has been
determined in their efforts to perform certain actions to which
their necessities have given birth. And it will be here premature
to offer any refutation of the opinions of those who contend for
the identity of this faculty with reason, and maintain that all the
actions of animals are the result of invention and experience; —
GREEN.] INSTINCT. 355
an opinion maintained with considerable plausibility by Dr
Darwin.
Perhaps the most ready and certain mode of coming to a con-
clusion in this intricate inquiry will be by the apparently circui-
tous route of determining first what we do not mean by the word.
Now we certainly do not mean, in the use of the term, any act of the
vital power in the production or maintenance of an organ : nobody
thinks of saying that the teeth grow by instinct, or that when the
muscles are increased in vigour and size in consequence of exer-
cise, it is from such a cause or principle. Neither do we attribute
instinct to the direct functions of the organs in providing for the
continuance and sustentation of the whole co-organised body. No
one talks of the liver secreting bile, or the heart acting for the
propulsion of the blood, by instinct. Some, indeed, have main-
tained that breathing, even voiding the excrement and urine, are
instinctive operations; but surely these, as well as the former, are
automatic, or at least are the necessary results of the organisation
of the parts in and by which the actions are produced. These
instances seem to be, if I may so say, below instinct. But, again,
we do not attribute instinct to any actions preceded by a will con-
scious of its whole purpose, calculating its effects, and predeter-
mining its consequences : nor to any exercise of the intellectual
powers of which the whole scope, aim, and end are intellectual.
In other terms, no man who values his words will talk of the in-
stinct of a Howard, or of the instinctive operations of a Newton
or Leibnitz, in those sublime efforts which ennoble and cast a
lustre, not less on the individuals than on the whole human
race.
To what kind or mode of action shall we then look for the
legitimate application of the term 1 In answer to this query we
may, I think, without fear of consequence, put the following cases,
as exemplifying and justifying the use of the term instinct in an
appropriate sense. First, when there appears an action, not in-
cluded either in the mere functions of life, acting within the sphere
of its own organismus; nor yet an action attributable to the intel-
ligent will or reason, yet at the same time not referable to any
356 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [GREEN.
particular organ ; we then declare the presence of an instinct. We
might illustrate this in the instance of a bull-calf butting before he
has horns, in which the action can have no reference to its inter-
nal economy, to the presence of a particular organ, or to an intel-
ligent will. Secondly, likewise (if it be not included in the first)
we attribute instinct where the organ is present, if only the act is
equally anterior to all possible experience on the part of the indi-
vidual agent; as, for instance, when the beaver employs its tail for
the construction of its dwelling; the tailor-bird its bill for the for-
mation of its pensile habitation; the spider its spinning organ for
fabricating its artfully-woven nets; or the viper its poison fang for
its defence. And lastly, generally where there is an act of the
whole body as one animal, not referable to a will conscious of its
purpose, nor to its mechanism, nor to a habit derived from ex-
perience, nor previous frequent use. Here with most satisfaction,
and without doubt of the propriety of the word, we declare an in-
stinct; as examples of which, we may adduce the migratory habits
of birds; the social instincts of the bees, the construction of their
habitations, composed of cells formed with geometrical precision,
adapted in capacity to different orders of the society, and forming
storehouses for containing a supply of provisions; not to mention
similar instances in wasps, ants, termites, and the endless contriv-
ances for protecting the future progeny.
But if it be admitted that we have rightly stated the application
of the term, what, we may ask, is contained in the examples
adduced, or what inferences are we to make as to the nature of
instinct itself, as a source and principle of action ? We shall,
perhaps, best aid ourselves in the inquiry by an example ; and let
us take a very familiar one, of a caterpillar taking its food. The
caterpillar seeks at once the plant which furnishes the appropriate
aliment, and this even as soon as it creeps from the ovum ; and
the food being taken into the stomach, the nutritious part is
separated from the innutritious, and is disposed of for the support
of the animal. The question then is, what is contained in this
instance of instinct ? In the first place, what does the vital power
in the stomach do, if we generalise the account of the process, or
GREEN. ] INS TINC T. 357
express it in its most general terms ? Manifestly it selects and
applies appropriate means to an immediate end, prescribed by
the constitution, first of the particular organ, and then of the
whole body or organismus. This we have admitted is not instinct.
But what does the caterpillar do ? Does it not also select and
apply appropriate means to an immediate end prescribed by its
particular organisation and constitution ? But there is something
more; it does this according to circumstances; and this we call
instinct But may there not be still something more involved 1
What shall we say of Huber's humble-bees 1 A dozen of these
were put under a bell-glass along with a comb of about ten silken
cocoons, so unequal in height as not to be capable of standing
steadily; to remedy this, two or three of the humble-bees got
upon the comb, stretched themselves over its edge, and with their
heads downwards fixed their forefeet on the table on which the
comb stood, and so with their hind feet kept the comb from
falling: when these were weary others took their places. In this
constrained and painful posture, fresh bees relieving their com-
rades at intervals, and each working in its turn, did these affec-
tionate little insects support the comb for nearly three days, at the
end of which time they had prepared sufficient wax to build pillars
with it. And what is still further curious, the first pillars having
got displaced, the bees had again recourse to the same manoeuvre.
What then is involved in this case ? Evidently the same selection
and appropriation of means to an immediate end as before, but
observe ! according to varying circumstances.
And here we are puzzled; for this becomes understanding. At
least no naturalist, however predetermined to contrast and oppose
instinct to understanding, but ends at last in facts in which he
himself can make out no difference. But are we hence to conclude
that the instinct is the same, and identical with the human under-
standing? Certainly not; though the difference is not in the
essentials of the definition, but in an addition to, or modification
of, that which is essentially the same in both. In such cases,
namely, as that which we have last adduced, in which instinct
assumes the semblance of understanding, the act indicative of
358 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [GREEN.
instinct is not clearly prescribed by the constitution or laws of the
animal's peculiar organisation, but arises out of the constitution
and previous circumstances of the animal, and those habits, wants,
and that predetermined sphere of action and operation which
belong to the race, and beyond the limits of which it does not
pass. If this be the case, I may venture to assert that I have
determined an appropriate sense for instinct: namely, that it is a
power of selecting and applying appropriate means to an imme-
diate end, according to circumstances and the changes of circum-
stances, these being variable and varying, but yet so as to be
referable to the general habits arising out of the constitution and
previous circumstances of the animal, considered not as an indi-
vidual but as a race.
We may here, perhaps, most fitly explain the error of those who
contend for the identity of reason and instinct, and believe that
the actions of animals are the result of invention and experience.
They have, no doubt, been deceived in their investigation of
instinct by an efficient cause simulating a final cause, and the
defect in their reasoning has arisen in consequence of observing
in the instinctive operations of animals the adaptation of means
to a relative end, from the assumption of a deliberate purpose.
To this freedom or choice in action and purpose, instinct, in any
appropriate sense of the word, cannot apply; and to justify and
explain its introduction, we must have recourse to other and
higher faculties than any manifested in the operations of instinct.
It is evident, namely, in turning our attention to the distinguishing
character of human actions, that there is, as in the inferior animals,
a selection and appropriation of means to ends, but it is (not only
according to circumstances, not only according to varying circum-
stances, but it is) according to varying purposes. But this is an
attribute of the intelligent will, and no longer even mere under-
standing.
And here let me observe, that the difficulty and delicacy af this
investigation are greatly increased by our not considering the
understanding (even our own) in itself, and as it would be were it
not accompanied with and modified by the co-operation of the
GREEN.] INSTINCT. 359
will, the moral feeling, and that faculty, perhaps best distinguished
by the name of reason, of determining that which is universal
and necessary, -of fixing laws and principles, whether speculative
or practical, and of contemplating a final purpose or end. This
intelligent will — having a self-conscious purpose, under the guid-
ance and light of the reason, by which its acts are made to bear
as a whole upon some end in and for itself, and to which the
understanding is subservient as an organ, or the faculty of select-
ing and appropriating the means — seems best to account for the
progressiveness of the human race which so evidently marks an
insurmountable distinction and impassable barrier between man
and the inferior animals; but which would be inexplicable, were
there no other difference than in the degree of their intellectual
faculties.
Man, doubtless, has his instincts, even in common with the in-
ferior animals, and many of these are the germs of some of the
best feelings of his nature. What, amongst many, might I pre-
sent as a better illustration, or more beautiful instance, than the
storge or maternal instinct ? But man's instincts are elevated and
ennobled by the moral ends and purposes of his being. He is
not destined to be the slave of blind impulses, a vessel purpose-
less, unmeant. He is constituted by his moral and intelligent
will to be the first freed being, the master-work and the end of
nature; but this freedom -and high office can only co-exist with
fealty and devotion to the service of truth and virtue. And
though we may even be permitted to use the term instinct, in
order to designate those high impulses which, in the minority of
man's rational being, shape his acts unconsciously to ultimate
ends, and which in constituting the very character and impress of
the humanity reveal the guidance of Providence; yet the conveni-
ence of the phrase, and the want of any other distinctive appella-
tion for the influence de supra, working unconsciously in and on
the whole human race, should not induce us to forget that the
term instinct is only strictly applicable to the adaptive power, as
the faculty, even in its highest proper form, of selecting and
adapting appropriate means to proximate ends according to vary-
360 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PLUTARCH
ing circumstances — a faculty which, however, only differs from
human understanding in consequence of the latter being enlight-
ened by reason, and that the principles which actuate man as
ultimate ends, and are designed for his conscious possession and
guidance, are best and most properly named ideas.
60.— g*atfr of fear,
PLUTARCH.
[PLUTARCHUS, " the only writer of antiquity who has established a lasting
reputation in the department of biography," was a native of Cheronsea, in
Boeotia, and was a youth in the time of the Roman emperor Nero. His Lives
are equally the delight of boys and men, of the cursory reader and the philoso-
pher. He had a distinct object in view — to exhibit character, and thence de-
duce or suggest moral lessons. The old English translation by Sir Thomas
North, from the French of Amyot, is the best complete version of this most
interesting writer. That of Langhorne is feeble and unidiomatic. Mr George
Long has translated those Lives which illustrate the civil wars of Rome ; and
his accomplished scholarship and profound historical knowledge leave us
nothing to desire. The following narrative of the death of Csesar is from Mr
Long's version.]
The most manifest and deadly hatred towards him was pro-
duced by his desire of kingly power, which to the many was the
first, and to those who had long nourished a secret hatred of him
the most specious cause. And indeed' those who were contriving
this honour for Ccesar spread about a certain report among the
people, that, according to the Sibylline writings, it appeared that
Parthia could be conquered by the Romans if they advanced
against it with a king, but otherwise could not be assailed. And
as Caesar was going down from Alba to the city, they ventured
to salute him as king, but, as the people showed their dissatisfac-
tion, Csesar was disturbed, and said that he was not called king,
but Caesar; and, as hereupon there was a general silence, he
passed along with no great cheerfulness nor good humour on his
countenance. When some extravagant honours had been decreed
to him in the Senate, it happened that he was sitting above the
rostra, and when the consuls and praetors approached with all the
PLUTARCH. J DEATH OF CAESAR. 361
Senate behind them, without rising from his seat, but just as if he
were transacting business with private persons, he answered that
the honours required rather to be contracted than enlarged. This
annoyed, not the Senate only, but the people also, who considered
that the state was insulted in the persons of the Senate ; and those
who were not obliged to stay went away forthwith with counte-
nance greatly downcast, so that Caesar perceiving it forthwith
went home, and as he threw his cloak from his shoulders he
called out to his friends, that he was ready to offer his throat to
any one who wished to kill him; but afterwards he alleged his
disease as an excuse for his behaviour, saying that persons who
are so affected cannot usually keep their senses steady when they
address a multitude standing, but that the senses being speedily
convulsed and whirling about bring on giddiness and are over-
powered. However, the fact was not so, for it is said that he was
very desirous to rise up when the Senate came, but was checked
by one of his friends, or rather one of his flatterers, Cornelius Bal-
bus, who said, " Will you not remember that you are Csesar, and
will you not allow yourself to be honoured as a superior ? "
There was added to these causes of offence the insult offered
to the tribunes. It was the festival of the Lupercalia, about which
many writers say that it was originally a festival of the shepherds,
and had also some relationship to the Arcadian Lycaea. On this
occasion many of the young nobles and magistrates run through
the city without their toga, and for sport and to make laughter strike
those whom they meet with stripes of hide that have the hair on ;
many women of rank also purposely put themselves in the way,
and present their hands to be struck like children at school, being
pursuaded that this is favourable to easy parturition for those who
are pregnant, and to conception for those who are barren. Caesar
was a spectator, being seated at the rostra on a golden chair in a
triumphal robe ; and Antonius was one of those who ran in the
sacred race, for he was consul. Accordingly, when he entered
the Forum, and the crowd made way for him, he presented to
Caesar a diadem which he carried surrounded with a crown of
bay; and there was a clapping of hands, not loud, but slight,
362 HALF-HOl'RS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
which had boon already concerted. When t";vsar put away the
diadem from him. all the people clapped their hands, and when
Antonius presented it again only a few clapped : but when Caesar
declined to receive it again, all the people applauded. The ex-
periment having thus failed, Ca?sar rose, and ordered the crown
to be carried to the Capitol. But as C;vsar's statues were seen
vd with royal diadems, two of the tribunes. Flavins and
Manillas, went up to them and pulled off the diadems, ami.
having discovered those who had been the first to salute Om
;hey led them oft" to prison. The people followed, clapping
their hands and calling the tribunes Rruti. because it was Brutus
who put down the kingly power and placed the sovereignty in the
Sena;, pie, instead of its being in the hands of one man.
. being irritated at this, deprived Flavins and Marullus of
their office, and while rating them he also insulted the people by
frequently calling the tribunes Bruti and Cunwi.
In this state of affairs the many turned to Marcus Brutus, who
on his father's side was considered to be a descendant of the an-
cient Brutus, and on his mother's side belonged to the Servilii.
another distinguished house, and he was the son-in-law and
nephew of Cato. The honours and favours which Brutus had
ved from Ca?sar dulled him towards attempting, of his own
proper motion, the overthrow of the monarchical power: for not
only was his life saved at the battle of Pharsalus after the rout of
Pompeius, and many of his friends also at his entreaty ; but
besides this he had great credit with Caesar. He had also received
among those who then held the prsetorship the chief office, and
he was to be consul in the fourth year from that time, having been
preferred to Cassius, who was a rival candidate. For it is said
that C^sar observed that Cassius urged better grounds of prefer-
ence, but that he could not pass over Brutus. And on one
sion, when some persons were calumniating Brutus to him.
time when the conspiracy was really forming, he would not listen
to them, but, touching his body with his hand, he said to the
accusers, " Brutus waits for this dry skin," by which he intended
to signify that Brutus was worthy of the power for his merits, but
PLUTARCH.] DEATH OP CMSAR, 363
for the sake of the power would not be ungrateful and a villain.
Now those who were eager for the change, and who looked up to
him alone, or him as the chief person, did not venture to speak
with him on the subject, but by night they used to fill the tribunal
and the seat on which he sat, when discharging his functions as
praetor, with writings, most of which were to this purport: — "You
are asleep, Brutus," and "You are not Brutus." By which
Cassius, perceiving that his ambition was somewhat stirred, urged
him more than he had done before, and pricked him on ; and
Cassius himself had also a private grudge against Caesar for the
reasons which I have mentioned in the Life of Brutus. Indeed
Caesar suspected Cassius, and he once said to his friends, * What
think ye is Cassius aiming at I for my part, I like him not over-
much, for he is over pale." On the other hand, it is said that
when a rumour reached him that Antonius and Dolabella were
plotting, he said, " I am not much afraid of these well-fed, long-
haired fellows, but I rather fear those others, the pale and thin,"
meaning Cassius and Brutus.
But it appears that destiny is not so much a thing that gives no
warning as a thing that cannot be avoided; for they say that
wondrous signs and appearances presented themselves. Now, as
to lights in the skies and sounds by night moving in various
directions, and solitary birds descending into the Forum, it is
perhaps not worth while recording these with reference to so im-
portant an event; but Strabo, the philosopher, relates that many
men, all of fire, were seen contending against one another, and
that a soldier's slave emitted a great flame from his hand, and
appeared to the spectators to be burning, but when the flame
went out the man had sustained no harm ; and while Caesar him-
self was sacrificing, the heart of the victim could not be found ;
and this was considered a bad omen, for naturally an animal
without a heart cannot exist The following stories also are told
by many: — That a certain seer warned him to be on his guard
against great danger on that day of the month of March which
the Romans call the Ides; and when the day had arrived, as
Caesar was going to the Senate-house, he saluted the seer, and
364 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PLUTARCH.
jeered him, saying, "Well, the Ides of March are come;" but the
seer mildly replied, " Yes, they are com%, but they are not yet
over." The day before, when Marcus Lepidus was entertaining
him, he chanced to be signing some letters, according to his
habit, while he was reclining at table; and the conversation having
turned on what kind of death was the best, before any one could
give an opinion he called out, " That which is unexpected."
After this, while he was sleeping, as he was accustomed to do,
by the side of his wife, all the doors and windows in the house
flew open at once, and, being startled by the noise and brightness
of the moon which was shining down upon him, he observed that
Calpurnia was in a deep slumber, but was uttering indistinct
words and inarticulate groans in the midst of her sleep ; and
indeed she was dreaming that she held her murdered husband in
her arms, and was weeping over him. Others say this was not
the vision that Calpurnia ha^-^ut the following: — There was
attached to Caesar's house, by way of ornament and distinction,
pursuant to a vote of the Senate, an acroterium, as Livius says,
and Calpurnia, in her dream seeing this tumbling down, lamented
and wept. When day came accordingly she entreated Caesar, if
it was possible, not to go out, and to put off the meeting of the
Senate : but, if he paid no regard to her dreams, she urged him
to inquire by other modes of divination and by sacrifices about
the future. Caesar also, as it seems, had some suspicion and
fear; for he had never before detected in Calpurnia any womanish
superstition, and now he saw that she was much disturbed ; and
when the seers also, after sacrificing many victims, reported to
him that the omens were unfavourable, he determined to send
Antonius to dismiss the Senate.
In the meantime, Decimus Brutus, surnamed Albinus, who was
in such favour with Caesar that he was made in his will his second
heir, but was engaged in the conspiracy with the other Brutus and
Cassius, being afraid that if Caesar escaped that day, the affair
might become known, ridiculed the seers, and chided Caesar for
giving cause for blame and censure to the Senate, who would con-
sider themselves insulted : he said, " that the Senate had met at
PLUTARCH.] DEATH OF CAESAR. 365
his bidding, and that they were all ready to pass a decree that
he should be proclaimed king of the provinces out of Italy, and
should wear a diadem whenever he visited the rest of the earth
and sea ; but if any one shall tell them, when they are taking their
seats, to be gone now and to come again when Calpurnia shall
have had better dreams, what may we not expect to be said by
those who envy you ? or who will listen to your friends when they
say that this is not slavery and tyranny ? But if," he continued,
" you are fully resolved to consider the day inauspicious, it is
better for you to go yourself and address the Senate, and then to
adjourn the business.'' As he said this, Brutus took Caesar by
the hand and began to lead him forth: and he had gone but a
little way from the door, when a slave belonging to another per-
son, who was eager to get at Caesar, but was prevented by the
press and numbers about him, rushing into the house, delivered
himself up to Calpurnia, and told her to keep him till Caesar re-
turned, for he had important things to communicate to him.
Artemidorus, a Cnidian by birth, and a professor of Greek phi-
losophy, which had brought him into the familiarity of some of
those who belonged to the party df Brutus, so that he knew the
greater part of what was going on, came and brought in a small
roll the information which he intended to communicate; but, ob-
serving that Caesar gave each roll as he received it to the attend-
ants about him, he came very near, and said, " This you alone
should read, Caesar, and read it soon; for it is about weighty
matters which concern you." Accordingly, Caesar received the roll,
but he was prevented from reading it by the number of people
who came in his way, though he made several attempts, and he
entered the Senate holding that roll in his hand, and retaining
that alone among all that had been presented to him. Some say
that it was another person who gave him this roll, and that
Artemidorus did not even approach him, but was kept from
him all the way by the pressure of the crowd.
Now these things perchance may be brought about by mere
spontaneity; but the spot that was the scene of that murder and
struggle, wherein the Senate was then assembled, which contained
366 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PLUTARCH.
the statue of Pompeius, and was a dedication by Pompeius, and
one of the ornaments that he added to his theatre, completely
proved that it was the work of some demon to guide and call the
execution of the deed to that place. It is said also that Cassius
looked towards the statue of Pompeius before the deed was begun
and silently invoked it, though he was not averse to the philo-
sophy of Epicurus; but the critical moment for the bold attempt,
which was now come, probably produced in him enthusiasm and
feeling in place of his former principles. Now Antonius, who
was faithful to Caesar, and a robust man, was kept on the outside
by Brutus Albinus, who purposely engaged him in a long con-
versation. When Caesar entered, the Senate rose to do him
honour, and some of the party of Brutus stood around his chair at
the back, and others preb ied themselves before him, as if their
purpose was to support the prayer of Tillius Cimber on behalf of
his exiled brother, and they all joined in entreaty, following Caesar
as far as his seat. When he had taken his seat, and was rejecting
their entreaties, and as they urged them still more strongly, began
to show displeasure towards them individually, Tillius taking hold
of his toga with both his hands, pulled it downwards from the
neck, which was the signal for the attack. Casca was the first to
strike him on the neck with his sword a blow, neither mortal nor
severe, for as was natural at the beginning of so bold a deed, he
was confused; and Caesar, turning round, seized the dagger and
held it fast. And it happened, that, at the same moment, he who
was struck cried out, in the Roman language, " You villain, Casca,
what are you doing1?" And he who had given the blow cried out
to his brother, in Greek, " Brother, help." Such being the begin-
ning, those who were not privy to the conspiracy were prevented,
by consternation and horror at what was going on, either from
flying or going to aid; and they did not even venture to utter a
word. And now each of the conspirators bared his sword, and
Caesar being hemmed in all round, in whatever direction he turned
meeting blows and swords aimed against his eyes and face, driven
about like a wild beast, was caught in the hands of his enemies,
for it was arranged that all of them should take a part in, and
PLUTARCH.] DEATH OF CMSAR. 367
taste of, the deed of blood. Accordingly, Brutus also gave him
one blow in the groin. It is said by some authorities, that he
defended himself against the rest, moving about his body hither
and thither, and calling out, till he saw that Brutus had drawn his
sword, when he pulled his toga over his face, and offered no
further resistance, having been driven either by chance or by the
conspirators to the base on which the statue of Pompeius stood.
And the base was drenched with blood, as if Pompeius was direct-
ing the vengeance upon his enemy, who was stretched beneath
his feet, and writhing under his many wounds : for he is said to
have received three and twenty wounds. Many of the conspira-
tors were wounded by one another, while they were aiming so
many blows against one body.
After Caesar was killed, though Brutus came forward as if he
was going to say something about the deed, the Senators, without
waiting to listen, rushed through the door, and making their escape
filled the people with confusion and indescribable alarm, so that
some closed their houses, and others left their tables and places
of business, and while some ran to- the place to see what had hap-
pened, others who had seen it ran away. But Antonius and
Lepidus, who were the chief friends of Caesar, stole away and fled
for refuge to the houses of other persons. The partisans of Brutus,
just as they were, warm from the slaughter, and showing their bare
swords, all in a body advanced from the Senate-house to the
Capitol, not like men who were flying, but exulting and confident,
calling the people to liberty, and joined by the nobles who met
them. Some even went up to the Capitol with them, and mingled
with them as if they had participated in the deed, and claimed the
credit of it, among whom were Caius Octavius and Lentulus Spin-
ther. But they afterwards paid the penalty of their vanity, for
they were put to death by Antonius and the young Caesar, without
having enjoyed even the reputation of that for which they lost
their lives, for nobody believed that they had a share in the deed.
For neither did those who put them to death, punish them for
what they did, but for what they wished to do. On the next day
Brutus came down and addressed the people, who listened without
368 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PLUTARCH.
expressing disapprobation or approbation of what had been done,
but they indicated by their deep silence that they pitied Caesar
and respected Brutus. The Senate, with a view of making an
amnesty and conciliating all parties, decreed that Csesar should
be honoured as a god, and that not the smallest thing should be
disturbed which he had settled while he was in power; and they
distributed among the partisans of Brutus provinces and suitable
honours, so that all people supposed that affairs were quieted and
had been settled in the best way.
But when the will of Csesar was opened, and it was discovered
that he had given to every Roman a handsome present, and they
saw the body, as it -w carried through the Forum, disfigured with
wounds, the multitude no longer kept within the bounds of pro-
priety and order, but heaping about the corpse benches, lattices
and tables, taken from the Forum, they set fire to it on the spot
and burnt it; then taking the flaming pieces of wood, they ran to
the houses of the conspirators to fire them, and others ran about
the city in all directions, seeking for the men, to seize and tear
them in pieces. But none of the conspirators came in their way,
and they were all well protected. One Cinna, however, a friend
of Caesar, happened, as it is said, to have had a strange dream the
night before; for he dreamed that he was invited by Csesar to sup
with him, and when he excused himself, he was dragged along by
Caesar by the hand, against his will, and making resistance the
while. Now when he heard that the body of Caesar was burning
in the Forum, he got up and went there, out of respect, though he
was somewhat alarmed at his dream, and had a fever on him.
One of the multitude who saw Cinna, told his name to another
who was inquiring of him, and he again told it to a third, and
immediately it spread through the crowd that this man was one of
those who had killed Csesar; and indeed there was one of the
conspirators who was named Cinna; and taking this man to be
him, the people forthwith rushed upon him and tore him in pieces
on the spot. It was principally through alarm at this that the
partisans of Brutus and Cassius after a few days left the city.
HUGH MILLER.] THE YOUNG GEOLOGIST. 369
61.
HUGH MILLER.
[THE following is an extract from a book, at once scientific and amusing—
"The Old Red Sandstone." The author, in the passage which we give, de-
scribes the circumstances which led him to the study of Geology. The volume
before us is dedicated to Sir Roderick Murchison ; and it is pleasing to learn
from this dedication, that the hard-working mason, when prosecuting his re-
searches in obscurity and solitude, had encouragement and assistance from one
of such eminent acquirements. The respect which the once humble labourer
had earned for himself as a scientific observer, was not less than the more ex-
tended fame which he won as a most' interesting writer. His geological con-
tributions to various journals are very numerous, whilst his separate works,
such as the "Footprints of the Creator, or the Asterolepis of Stromness," and
the " Geology of the Bass," were at once philosophical and popular. On his
return from a visit to England, he published " First Impressions of England
and its People," in which his scientific knowledge was associated with shrewd
observation and picturesque description. But the charm of autobiographical
reminiscence which we find in the following "Half-Hour" was never more in-
structively developed than in those records of his own life, entitled "Schools
and Schoolmasters." Hugh Miller was born in Cromarty, in the north of
Scotland, on the I2th of October 1802. He died by his own hand on the 24th
of November 1856. At the time of his death he was engaged in a work
called " The Testimony of the Rocks." This labour, superadded to his ordi-
nary editorial occupations, is supposed to have produced an excitement of the
brain which led to the paroxysm that terminated his valuable life.]
My advice to young working men desirous of bettering their
circumstances, and adding to the amount of their enjoyment, is a
very simple one. Do not seek happiness in what is misnamed
pleasure; seek it rather in what is termed study. Keep your
consciences clear, your curiosity fresh, and embrace every oppor-
tunity of cultivating your minds. You will gain nothing by attend-
ing Chartist meetings. The fellows who speak nonsense with
fluency at these assemblies, and deem their nonsense eloquence,
are totally unable to help either you or themselves ; or, if they do
succeed in helping themselves, it will be all at your expense.
Leave them to harangue unheeded, and set yourselves to occupy
your leisure hours in making yourselves wiser men. Learn to
make a right use of your eyes : the commonest things are worth
looking at — even stones and weeds, and the most familiar animals.
VOL. i. 2 A
37° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HUGH MILLER.
Read good books, not forgetting the best of all : there is more
true philosophy in the Bible than in every work of every sceptic
that ever wrote ; and we would be all miserable creatures without
it, and none more miserable than you. You are jealous of the
upper classes ; and perhaps it is too true that, with some good,
you have received much evil at their hands. It must be con-
fessed they have hitherto been doing comparatively little for you,
and a great deal for themselves. But upper and lower classes
there must be, *<Uong as the world lasts ; and there is only one
way in which your jealousy of them can be well directed. Do
not let them get ahead of you in intelligence. It would be alike
unwise and unjust to attempt casting them down to your own
level, and no class would suffer more in the attempt than your-
selves, for you would only be clearing the way, at an immense ex<
pense of blood, and under a tremendous pressure of misery, for
another and perhaps worse aristocracy, with some second Crom-
well or Napoleon at their head. Society, however, is in a state
of continual flux : some in the upper classes are from time to time
going down, and some of you from time to time mounting up to
take their places — always the more steady and intelligent among
you, remember ; and if all your minds were cultivated, not merely
intellectually, but morally also, you would find yourselves, as a
body, in the possession of a power which every charter in the
world could not confer upon you, and which all the tyranny or
injustice of the world could not withstand.
I intended, however, to speak rather of the pleasure to be de-
rived, by even the humblest, in the pursuit of knowledge, than of
the power with which knowledge in the masses is invariably
accompanied. For it is surely of greater importance that men
should receive accessions to their own happiness, than to the in-
fluence which they exert over other men. There is none of the
intellectual, and none of the moral faculties, the exercise of which
does not lead to enjoyment; nay, it is chiefly in the active em-
ployment of these that all enjoyment consists : and hence it is
that happiness bears so little reference to station. It is a truth
which has been often told, but very little heeded, or little calcu-
HUGH MILLER.] THE YOUNG GEOLOGIST. 371
lated upon, that though one nobleman may be happier than an-
other, and one labourer happier than another, yet it cannot be at
all premised of their respective orders, that the one is in any de-
gree happier than the other. Simple as the fact may seem, if
universally recognised, it would save a great deal of useless dis-
content, and a great deal of envy. Will my humbler readers per-
mit me at once to illustrate this subject, and to introduce the
chapters which follow, by a piece of simple narrative ? I wish to
show them how possible it is to enjoy much happiness in very
mean employments. Cowper tells us that labour, though the
primal curse, " has been softened into mercy ; " and I think that,
even had he not done so, I would have found out the fact for
myself.
It was twenty years last February since I set out a little before
sunrise to make my first acquaintance with a life of labour and
restraint, and I have rarely had a heavier heart than on that
morning. I was but a thin, loose-jointed boy at the time — fond
of the pretty intangibilities of romance, and of dreaming when
broad awake ; and, woful change ! I was now going to work at
what Burns had instanced in his " Twa Dogs," as one of the most
disagreeable of all employments — to work in a quarry. Bating
the passing uneasiness occasioned by a few gloomy anticipations,
the portion of my life which had already gone by had been happy
beyond the common lot. I had been a wanderer among rocks
and woods — a reader of curious books when I could get them — a
gleaner of old traditionary stories ; and now I was going to ex-
change all my day-dreams, and all my amusements, for the kind
of life in which men toil every day that they may be enabled to
eat, and eat every day that they may be enabled to toil !
The quarry in which I wrought lay on the southern shore of a
noble inland bay, or frith rather, with a little clear stream on the
one side, and a thick fir wood on the other. It had been opened
in the old red sandstone of the district, and was overtopped by a
huge bank of diluvial clay, which rose over it in some places to
the height of nearly thirty feet, and which at this time was rent
and shivered, wherever it presented an open front to the weather,
372 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HUGH MILLER.
by a recent frost. A heap of loose fragments, which had fallen
from above, blocked up the face of the quarry, and my first em-
ployment was to clear them away. The friction of the shovel
soon blistered my hands, but the pain was by no means very
severe, and I wrought hard, and willingly, that I might see how
the huge strata below, which presented so firm and unbroken a
frontage, were to be torn up and removed. Picks, and wedges,
and levers, were applied by my brother workmen ; and simple
and rude as I had been accustomed to regard these implements,
I found I had much to learn in the way of using them. They all
proved inefficient, however, and the workmen had to bore into
one of the inferior strata, and employ gunpowder. The process
was new to me, and I deemed it a highly amusing one : it had the
merit, too, of being attended with some such degree of danger as a
boating or rock excursion, and had thus an interest independent
of its novelty. We had a few capital shots : the fragments flew
in every direction ; and an immense mass of the diluvium came
toppling down, bearing with it two dead birds, that in a recent
Btorm had crept into one of the deeper fissures, to die in the
shelter. I felt a new interest in examining them. The one was
a pretty cock goldfinch, with its hood of vermilion, and its wings
inlaid with the gold to which it owes its name, as unsoiled and
smooth as if it had been preserved for a museum. The other, a
somewhat rarer bird, of the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with
light blue and a grayish yellow. I was engaged in admiring the
poor little things, more disposed to be sentimental, perhaps, than
if I had been ten years older, and thinking of the contrast between
the warmth and jollity of their green summer haunts, and the cold
and darkness of their last retreat, when I heard our employer
bidding the workmen lay by their tools. I looked up and saw
the sun sinking behind the thick fir wood beside us, and the long
dark shadows of the trees stretching downwards towards the
shore.
This was no very formidable beginning of the course of life I
had so much dreaded. To be sure, my hands were a little sore,
and I felt nearly as much fatigued as if I had been climbing
HUGH MILLER.] THE YOUNG GEOLOGIST. 373
among the rocks ; but I had wrought, and been useful, and had
yet enjoyed the day fully as much as usual. It was no small
matter, too, that the evening, converted by a rare transmutation,
into the delicious " blink of rest " which Burns so truthfully de-
scribes, was all my own. I was as light of heart next morning as
any of my brother-workmen. There had been a smart frost dur-
ing the night, and the rime lay white on the grass as we passed
onwards through the fields; but the sun rose in a clear atmo-
sphere, and the day mellowed, as it advanced, into one of those
delightful days of early spring, which give so pleasing an earnest
of whatever is mild and genial in the better half of the year. All
the workmen rested at midday, and I went to enjoy my half-hour,
alone, on a mossy knoll in the neighbouring wood, which com-
mands through the trees a wide prospect of the bay and the oppo-
site shore. There was not a wrinkle on the water, nor a cloud
in the sky, and the branches were as moveless in the calm as if
they had been traced on canvas. From a wooded promontory
that stretched half-way across the frith there ascended a thin
column of smoke. It rose straight as the line of a plummet for
more than a thousand yards, and then, on reaching a thinner
stratum of air, spread out equally on every side like the foliage of
a stately tree. Ben Wyvis rose to the west white with the yet
unwasted snows of winter, and as sharply defined in the clear at-
mosphere, as if all its sunny slopes and blue retiring hollows had
been chiselled in marble. A line of snow ran along the opposite
hills ; all above was white, and all below was purple. They
reminded me of the pretty French story, in which an old artist is
described as tasking the ingenuity of his future son-in-law, by
giving him as a subject for his pencil a flower-piece composed of
only white flowers, of which the one-half were to bear their proper
colour, the other half a deep purple hue, and yet all be perfectly
natural ; and how the young man resolved the riddle and gained
his mistress, by introducing a transparent purple vase into the
picture, and making the light pass through it on the flowers that
were drooping over the hedge. I returned to the quarry, con-
vinced that a very exquisite pleasure may be a very cheap one,
374 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HUGH MILLER.
and that the busiest employments may afford leisure enough to
enjoy it.
The gunpowder had loosened a large mass in one of the inferior
strata, and our first employment, on resuming our labours, was
to raise it from its bed. I assisted the other workmen in placing
it on edge, and was much struck by the appearance of the plat-
form on which it had rested. The entire surface was ridged and
furrowed like a bank of sand that had been left by the tide an
hour before. I could trace every bend and curvature, every cross
hollow and counter ridge of the corresponding phenomena ; for
the resemblance was no half resemblance — it was the thing itself;
and I had observed it a hundred and a hundred times, when sail-
ing my little schooner in the shallows left by the ebb. But what
had become of the waves that had thus fretted the solid rock, or of
what element had they been composed ; I felt as completely at
fault as Robinson Crusoe did on his discovering the print of the
man's foot on the sand. The evening furnished me with still
further cause of wonder. We raised another block in a different
part of the quarry, and found that the area of a circular depres-
sion in the stratum below was broken and flawed in every direc-
tion, as if it had been the bottom of a pool, recently dried up,
which had shrunk and split in the hardening. Several large stones
came rolling down from the diluvium in the course of the after-
noon. They were of different qualities from the sandstone below,
and from one another; and, what was more wonderful still, they
were all rounded and water-worn, as if they had been tossed about
in the sea, or the bed of a river, for hundreds of years. There
could not, surely, be a more conclusive proof that the bank
which had enclosed them so long could not have been created
on the rock on which it rested. No workman ever manufactures
a half-worn article, and the stones were all half-worn ! And if
not the bank, why then the sandstone underneath? I was lost in
conjecture, and found I had food enough for thought that even-
ing, without once thinking of the unhappiness of a life of labour.
The immense masses of diluvium which we had to clear away
rendered the working of the quarry laborious and expensive, and
HUGH MILLER.] THE YOUNG GEOLOGIST. 375
all the party quitted it in a few days to make trial of another that
seemed to promise better. The one we left is situated, as I have
said, on the southern shore of an inland bay — the Bay of Crom-
arty; the one to which we removed has been opened in a lofty
wall of cliffs that overhangs the northern shore of the Moray
Frith. I soon found I was to be no loser by the change. Not
the united labours of a thousand men for more than a thousand
years could have furnished a better section of the geology of the
district than this range of cliffs. It may be regarded as a sort of
chance dissection on the earth's crust. We see in one place the
primary rock, with its veins of granite and quartz, its dizzy pre-
cipices of gneiss, and its huge masses of hornblende ; we find
the secondary rock in another, with its beds of sandstone and
shale, its spars, its clays, and its nodular limestones. We dis-
cover the still little known, but highly interesting fossils of the
old red sandstone in one deposition; we find the beautifully pre-
served shells and lignites of the lias in another. There are the
remains of two several creations at once before us. The shore,
too, is heaped, with rolled fragments of almost every variety of
rock, — basalts, ironstones, hyperstenes, porphyries, bituminous
shales, and micaceous schists. In short, the young geologist, had
he all Europe before him, could hardly choose for himself a better
field. I had, however, no one to tell me so at the time, for geo-
logy had not yet travelled so far north : and so, without guide or
vocabulary, I had to grop my way as I best might, and find out
all its wonders for myself. But so slow was the process, and so
much was I a seeker in the dark, that the facts contained in these
few sentences were the patient gatherings of years.
In the course of the first day's employment, I picked up a
nodular mass of blue limestone, and laid it open by a stroke of
the hammer. Wonderful to relate, it contained inside a beauti-
fully-finished piece of sculpture — one of the volutes, apparently of
an Ionic capital; and not the far-famed walnut of the fairy tale,
had I broken the shell and found the little dog lying within, could
have surprised me more. Was there another such curiosity in
the whole world ? I broke open a few other nodules of similar
376 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [HUGH MILLER.
appearance — for they lay pretty thickly on the shore — and found
that there might be. In one of these there were what seemed to
be the scales of fishes, and the impressions of a few minute bi-
valves, prettily striated ; in the centre of another there was actu-
ally a piece of decayed wood. Of all nature's riddles these seemed
to me to be at once the most interesting, and the most difficult
to expound. I treasured them carefully up, and was told by one
of the workmen to whom I showed them, that there was a part
of the shore about two miles farther to the west, where curiously
shaped stones, somewhat like the heads of boarding-pikes, were
occasionally picked up ; and that in his father's days the country
people called them thunderbolts, and deemed them of sovereign
efficacy in curing bewitched cattle. Our employer, on quitting
the quarry for the building on which we. were to be engaged, gave
all the workmen a half-holiday. I employed it in visiting the
place where the thunderbolts had fallen so thickly, and found it
a richer scene of wonder than I could have fancied in even my
dreams.
What first attracted my notice was a detached group of low-
lying skerries, wholly different in form and colour from the sand-
stone cliffs above, or the primary rocks a little farther to the west.
I found them composed of thin strata of limestone, alternating
with thicker beds of a black slaty substance, which, as I ascer-
tained in the course of the evening, burns with a powerful flame,
and emits a strong bituminous odour. The layers into which
the beds readily separate are hardly an eighth part of an inch in
thickness, and yet on every layer there are the impressions of
thousands and tens of thousands of the various fossils peculiar to
the lias. We may turn over these wonderful leaves one after one,
like the leaves of a herbarium, and find the pictorial records of a
former creation in every page. Scallops, and gryphites, and am-
monites, of almost every variety peculiar to the formation, and at
least some eight or ten varieties of belemnite ; twigs of wood,
leaves of plants, cones of an extinct species of pine, bits of char-
coal, and the scales of fishes; and, as if to render their pictorial
appearance more striking, though the leaves of this interesting
HUGH MILLER.] THE YOUNG GEOLOGIST. 377
volume are of a deep black, most of the impressions are of a
chalky whiteness. I was lost in admiration and astonishment,
and found my very imagination paralysed by an assemblage of
wonders, that seemed to outrival, in the fantastic and the extra-
vagant, even its wildest conceptions. I passed on from ledge to
ledge, like the traveller of the tale through the city of statues,
and at length found one of the supposed aerolites I had come in
quest of, firmly imbedded in a mass of shale. But I had skill
enough to determine that it was other than what it had been
deemed. A very near relative, who had been a sailor in his time,
on almost every ocean, and had visited almost every quarter of
the globe, had brought home one of these meteoric stones with
him from the coast of Java. It was of a cylindrical shape and
vitreous texture, and it seemed to have parted in the middle, when
in a half molten state, and to have united again, somewhat awry, ere
it had cooled enough to have lost the adhesive quality. But there
was nothing organic in its structure, whereas the stone I had now
found was organised very curiously indeed. It was of a conical
form and filamentary texture, the filaments radiating in straight
lines from the centre to the circumference. Finely marked veins
like white threads ran transversely through these in its upper half
to the point, while the space below was occupied by an internal
cone, formed of plates that lay parallel to the base, and which,
like watch-glasses, were concave on the under side, and convex
on the upper. I learned in time to call this stone a belemnite,
and became acquainted with enough of its history to know that
it once formed part of a variety of cuttle-fish, long since extinct
My first year of labour came to a close, and I found that the
amount of my happiness had not been less than in the last of my
boyhood. My knowledge, too, had increased in more than the
ratio of former seasons ; and as I had acquired the skill of at
least the common mechanic, I had fitted myself for independence.
The additional experience of twenty years has not shown me that
there is any necessary connexion between a life of toil and a life of
wretchedness ; and when I have found good men anticipating a
better and a happier time than either the present or the past, the
378 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VERPLANCK.
conviction that in every period of the world's history the great
bulk of mankind must pass their days in labour, has not in the
least inclined me to scepticism.
62.— jjfo Stbaalmnzitx.
[VERPLANCK.
[MR VERPLANCK is an American writer, who, like many of the most dis-
tinguished authors and scholars of the United States, has filled situations of
political responsibility.]
It has been to me a source of pleasure, though a melancholy
one, that in rendering this public tribute to the worth of our
departed friend, the respectable members of two bodies, one of
them the most devoted and efficient in its scientific inquiries,
the other comprising so many names eminent for philanthropy
and learning, have met to do honour to the memory of a school-
master.
There are prouder themes for the eulogist than this. The
praise of the statesman, the warrior, or the orator, furnish more
splendid topics for ambitious eloquence; but no theme can be
more rich in desert, or more fruitful in public advantage.
The enlightened liberality of many of our state governments
(amongst which we may claim a proud distinction for our own)
by extending the common school system over their whole popu-
lation, has brought elementary education to the door of every
family. In this State, it appears from the annual reports of the
Secretary of the State, there are, besides the fifty incorporated
academies and numerous private schools, about nine thousand
school districts, in each of which instruction is regularly given.
These contain at present half a million of children taught in the
single State of New York. To these may be added nine or ten
thousand more youth in the higher seminaries of learning, exclu-
sive of the colleges.
Of what incalculable influence, then, for good or for evil, upon
the dearest interests of society, must be the estimate entertained
VKRPLANCK.] THE SCHOOLMASTER. 379
for the character of this great body of teachers, and the consequent
respectability of the individuals who compose it !
At the recent general election in this State, the votes of above
three hundred thousand persons were taken. In thirty years the
great majority of these will have passed away; their rights will be
exercised, and their duties assumed, by those very children whose
minds are now open to receive their earliest and most durable
impressions from the ten thousand schoolmasters of this State.
What else is there in the whole of our social system of such
extensive and powerful operation on the national character?
There is one other influence more powerful, and but one. It is
that of the MOTHER. The forms of a free government, the pro-
visions of wise legislation, the schemes of the statesman, the
sacrifices of the patriot, are as nothing compared with these. If
the future citizens of our republic are to be worthy of their rich
inheritance, they must be made so principally through the virtue
and intelligence of their mothers. It is in the school of maternal
tenderness that the kind affections must be first roused and made
habitual — the early sentiment of piety awakened and rightly
directed — the sense of duty and moral responsibility unfolded
and enlightened. But next in rank and in efficacy to that pure
and holy source of moral influence is that of the schoolmaster.
It is powerful already. What would it be if in every one of those
school districts which we now count by annually increasing thou-
sands, there were to be found one teacher well-informed without
pedantry, religious without bigotry or fanaticism, proud and fond
of his profession, and honoured in the discharge of his duties!
How wide would be the intellectual, the moral influence of such
a body of men ! Many such we have already amongst us — men
humbly wise and obscurely useful, whom poverty cannot depress,
nor neglect degrade. But to raise up a body of such men, as
numerous as the wants and the dignity of the country demand,
their labours must be fitly remunerated, and themselves and their
calling cherished and honoured.
The schoolmasters occupation is laborious* and ungrateful; its
rewards are scanty and precarious. He may indeed be, and he
380 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VERPLANCK.
ought to be, animated by the consciousness of doing good, that
best of all consolations, that noblest of all motives. But that, too,
must be often clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Obscure and
inglorious as his daily occupation may appear to learned pride or
worldly ambition, yet to be truly successful and happy, he must
be animated by the spirit of the same great principles which in-
spired the most illustrious benefactors of mankind. If he bring to
his task high talent and rich acquirements, he must be content to
look into distant years for the proof that his labours have not been
wasted — that the good seed which he daily scatters abroad does
not fall on stony ground and wither away, or among thorns, to be
choked by the cares, the delusions, or the vices of the world. He
must solace his toils with the same prophetic faith that enabled the
greatest of modern philosophers, amidst the neglect or contempt
of his own times, to regard himself as sowing the seeds of truth
for posterity and the care of Heaven. He must arm himself
against disappointment and mortification, with a portion of that
same noble confidence which soothed the greatest of modern
poets when weighed down by care and danger, by poverty, old
age, and blindness— still
" In prophetic dream he saw
The youth unborn, with pious awe,
Imbibe each virtue from his sacred page."
He must know, and he must love to teach his pupils, not the
meagre elements of knowledge, but the secret and the use of their
own intellectual strength, exciting and enabling them hereafter to
raise for themselves the veil which covers the majestic form of
Truth. He must feel deeply the reverence due to the youthful
mind fraught with mighty though undeveloped energies and affec-
tions, and mysterious and eternal destinies. Thence he must have
learnt to reverence himself and his profession, and to look upon
its otherwise ill-requited toils as their own exceeding great reward.
. If such are the difficulties and the discouragements — such the
duties, the motives* and the consolations of teachers who are
v/orthy of that name and trust, how imperious then the obligation
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 381
upon every enlightened citizen who knows and feels the value of
such men to aid them, to cheer them, and to honour them !
But let us not be content with barren honour to buried merit.
Let us prove our gratitude to the dead by faithfully endeavouring
to elevate the station, to enlarge the usefulness, and to raise the
character of the schoolmaster amongst us. Thus shall we best
testify our gratitude to the teachers and guides of our own youth,
thus best serve our country, and thus, most effectually, diffuse
over our land light, and truth, and virtue.
63.— 0ms— III.
REAL COURAGE. — I have read of a bird, which hath a face
like, and yet will prey upon, a man ; who coming to the water to
drink, and rinding there by reflection that he had killed one like
himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth
itself. Such is in some sort the condition of Sir Edward Har-
wood. This accident, that he had killed one in a private quarrel,
put a period to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to his eyes
all the days of his life. No possible provocations could after-
wards tempt him to a duel ; and no wonder that one's conscience
loathed that whereof he had surfeited. He refused all challenges
with more honour than others accepted them ; it being well known
that he would set his foot as far in the face of his enemy as any
man alive. — FULLER. Worthies. — Article, Lincolnshire.
PRECOCIOUS INTELLIGENCE. — Four merchants were sharers in
a sum of a thousand pieces of gold, which they had mixed to-
gether, and put into one purse, and they went with it to purchase
merchandise, and, finding in their way a beautiful garden, they
entered it, and left the purse with a woman who was the keeper
of that garden. Having entered, they diverted themselves in a
tract of the garden, and ate and drank, and were happy; and one
of them said, " I have with me some perfume. Come, let us
wash our heads with this running water, and perfume ourselves."
Another said, " We want a comb." And another said, " We
382 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
will ask the keeper; perhaps she hath with her a comb." And
upon this, one of them rose and went to the keeper, and said to
her, " Give me the purse." She replied, " When ye all present
yourselves, or thy companions order me to give it thee." Now
his companions were in a place where the keeper could see them,
and she could hear their words. And the man said to his com-
panions, " She is not willing to give me aught." So they said to
her, " Give him." And when she heard their words, she gave
him the purse ; and he went forth fleeing from them. Therefore,
when he had wearied them by the length of his absence, they
came to the keeper, and said to her, " Wherefore didst thou not
give him the comb ]" And she replied, " He demanded of me
nothing but the purse, and I gave it not to him save with your
permission, and he hath departed hence and gone his way." And
when they heard the words of the keeper, they slapped their faces,
and seized her with their hands, saying to her, " We gave thee
not permission save to give the comb." She replied, " He did
not mention to me a comb." And they seized her and took her
up to the Ka~dee, and when they presented themselves before
him, they stated to him the case; whereupon he bound the keeper
to restore the purse, and bound a number of her debtors to be
answerable for her.
So she went forth perplexed, not knowing her way ; and there
met her a boy, whose age was five years ; and when the boy saw
her so perplexed, he said to her, "What is the matter, O my
mother 1" But she returned him not an answer, despising him on
account of the smallness of his age. And he repeated his ques-
tion to her a first, a second, and a third time. So at length she
told him what had happened to her. And the boy said unto her,
"Give me a piece of silver that I may buy some sweetmeats with
it, and I will tell thee something by which thine acquittance may
be effected." The keeper therefore gave him a piece of silver,
asking him, "What hast thou to say?" And the boy answered
her, " Return to the Kddee, and say to him, it was agreed be-
tween me and them, that I should not give them the purse save
in the presence of all the four." So the keeper returned to the
VARIOUS.] APOPHTHEGMS. 383
Kddee, and said to him as the boy had told her ; upon which the
Kddee said to the three men, " Was it thus agreed between you
and her?" They answered, "Yes." And the Kadee said to
them, " Bring to me your companion and take the purse." Thus
the keeper went forth free, no injury befalling her, and she went
her way. — LANE. Notes to Arabian Nights.
DR KETTLE. — Mr , one of the fellows, (in Mr Francis
Potter's time,) was wont to say that Dr Kettle's brain was like a
hasty-pudding, where there were memory, judgment, and fancy, all
stirred together. He had all these faculties in great measure,
but they were also jumbled together. If you had to do with
him, taking him for a fool, you would have found in him great
subtility and reach : £ contra, if you treated with him as a wise
man, you would have mistaken him for a fool. A neighbour of
mine told me he heard him preach once in St Mary's Church, at
Oxon. He began thus : — " It being my turn to preach in this
place, I went into my study to prepare myself for my sermon, and
I took down a book that had blue strings, and looked in it, and
'twas sweet St Bernard. I chanced to read such a part of it, on such
a subject, which hath made me to choose this text ." I
know not whether this was the only time or no, that he used this
following way of conclusion : — "But now I see it is time for me
to shut up my book, for I see the doctor's men come in wiping
of their beards from the ale-house."
As they were reading and circumscribing figures, said he, " I
will show you how to inscribe a triangle in a quadrangle. Bring
a pig into the quadrangle, and I will set the college dog at him,
and he will take the pig by the ear; then come I and take the
dog by the tail, and the hog by the tail, and so there you have a
triangle in a quadrangle." — AUBREY.
YOUTH. — Sir, I love the acquaintance of young people ; be-
cause, in the first place, I don't like to think myself growing old.
In the next place, young acquaintances must last longest, if they
do last ; and then, sir, young men have more virtue than old
men ; they have more generous sentiments in every respect. I
love the young dogs of this age, they have more wit and humour
384 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGE.
and knowledge of life than we had ; but then the dogs are not so
good scholars. Sir, in my early days I read very hard. It is a
sad reflection, but a true one, that I knew almost as much at
eighteen as I do now. My judgment, to be sure, was not so
good; but I had all the facts. I remember very well, when I was
at Oxford, an old gentleman said to me, " Young man, ply your
book diligently now, and acquire a stock of knowledge ; for when
years come unto you, you will find that poring upon books will be
but an irksome task."— JOHNSON, in Boswell.
64.— gtjfje fmifa&m of Cljrist
BISHOP BEVERIDGE
[WILLIAM BEVERIDGE was born in 1638, at Barrow, in Leicestershire. He
was educated at St John's College, Cambridge; received various ecclesiastical
preferments ; and became Bishop of St Asaph in 1704. In 1708 he died. He
Vvas a divine of profound learning, of exemplary holiness, and of unwearied in-
dustry in the discharge of his pastoral duties. He was called, in his own time,
"the great restorer and reviver of primitive piety." The following extract is from
his admirable *' Private Thoughts upon Religion and a Christian Life."]
Hoping that all who profess themselves to be the friends and
disciples of Jesus Christ desire to manifest themselves to be so by
following both His precepts and example, I shall give the reader
a short narrative of His life and actions, wherein we may all see
what true piety is, and what real Christianity requires of us ; and
may not content ourselves, as many do, with being professors,
and adhering to parties or factions amongst us, but strive to be
thorough Christians, and to carry ourselves as such, by walking as
Christ himself walked; which, that we may know at least how to
do, looking upon Christ as a mere man, I shall show how He did,
and by consequence how we ought to carry ourselves both to God
and man, and what graces and virtues He exercised all along for
our example and imitation.
Now for our more clear and methodical proceeding in a matter
of such consequence as this is, I shall begin with His behaviour
towards men, from His childhood to His death.
BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. 385
Just, therefore, when He was a child of twelve years of age, it is
particularly recorded of Him, that He was subject or obedient to
his parents, His real mother and reputed father.* It is true, He
knew at that time that God himself was His Father, for, said He,
" Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business T't And
knowing God to be His Father, He could not but know likewise
that He was infinitely above His mother; yea, that she could
never have born Him, had not Himself first made and supported
her. Yet, howsoever, though as God He was Father to her, yet as
man she was mother to Him, and, therefore, He honoured and
obeyed both her and him to whom she was espoused. Neither did
He only respect His mother whilst He was here, but He took
care of her, too, when He was going hence. Yea, all the pains
He suffered upon the cross could not make Him forget His duty
to her that bore Him; but 'seeing her standing by the cross, as
Himself hung on it, He committed her to the care of His beloved
disciple, who " took her to His own home.":}: Now, as our Saviour
did, so are we bound to carry ourselves to our earthly parents,
whatsoever their temper or condition be in this world, Though
God hath blessed some of us perhaps with greater estates than
ever He blessed them, yet we must not think ourselves above
them, nor be at all the less respectful to them. Christ, we see,
was infinitely above His mother : yet, as she was His mother, He
was both subject and respectful to her. He was not ashamed to
own her as she stood by the cross ; but, in the view and hearing
of all there present, gave His disciples a charge to take care of
her, leaving us an example, that such amongst us as have parents
provide for them, if they need it, as for our children, both while
we live, and when we come to die.
And as He was to His natural, so was He, too, to His civil
parents, the magistrates under which He lived, submissive and
faithful: for though, as He was God, He was infinitely above
them in heaven, yet, as He was man, He was below them on
earth, having committed all civil power into their hands, without
reserving any at all for Himself. So that though they received
* Luke ii. 51. + Luke ii. 49. J John xix. 27.
VOL. I. 2 B
386 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGE.
their commission from Him, yet now Himself could not act with-
out receiving a commission from them. And, therefore, having
no commission from them to do it, He would not intrench so
much upon their privilege and power as to determine the contro-
versy betwixt the two brethren contending about their inheritance.
" Man," saith He, " who made me a judge or a divider over
you?"* And to show His submission to the civil magistrates as
highly as possibly He could, rather than offend them, He wrought
a miracle to pay the tax which they had charged upon Him.f And
when the officers were sent to take Him, though He had more
than twelve legions of angels at His service, to have fought for
Him if He had pleased, yet He would not employ them, nor
suffer His own disciples to make any resistance.^: And though
some of late days, who call themselves Christians, have acted
quite contrary to our blessed Saviour in this particular, I hope
better things of my readers, even that they will behave themselves
more like Christ, who, though He was supreme governor of the
world, yet would not resist, but submitted to the civil power which
Himself had intrusted men withal.
Moreover, although whilst He was here He was really not only
the best but greatest man upon earth, yet He carried Himself to
others with that meekness, humility, and respect, as if He had
been the least : as He never admired any man for his riches, so
neither did He despise any man for his poverty: poor men and
rich were all alike to Him. He was as lowly and respectful to
the lowest, as He was to the highest that He conversed with : He
affected no titles of honour, nor gaped after popular air, but sub-
mitted Himself to the meanest services that He could, for the
good of others, even to the washing His own disciples' feet, and
all to teach us that we can never think too lowly of ourselves, nor
do anything that is beneath us; propounding Himself as our
example, especially in this particular : " Learn of me," saith He,
" for I am meek and lowly in heart."§
His humility also was the more remarkable, in that His bounty
* Luke xii. 14, f Matt. xvii. 27.
% Matt. xxvi. 52, 53. § Matt. xi. 29.
BISHOP BEVERIUGE. ] THE I MIT A T10N OF CHRIS T. 387
and goodness to others was so great, for " He went about doing
good." * Wheresoever you read He was, you read still of some
good work or other He did there. Whatsoever company He
conversed with, they still went better from Him than they came
unto Him, if they came out of a good end. By Him, as Himself
said, " the blind received their sight, and the lame walked, the
lepers were cleansed, and the deaf heard, the dead were raised
up, and the poor have the gospel preached unto them."f Yea,
it is observable, that we never read of any person whatsoever that
came to Him, desiring any kindness or favour of Him, but He
still received it, and that whether He was friend or foe. For, in- '
deed, though He had many inveterate and implacable enemies in
the world, yet He bore no grudge or malice against them, but
expressed as much love and favour for them as to His greatest
friends. Insomuch, that when they had gotten Him upon the cross,
and fastened His hands and feet unto it, in the midst of all that
pain and torment which they put Him to, He still prayed for them.J
Oh ! how happy, how blessed a people should we be, could we
but follow our blessed Saviour in this particular ! How well would
it be with us, could we but be thus loving to one another, as Christ
was to all, even His most bitter enemies ! We may assure our-
selves it is not only our misery, but our sin too, ^unless we be so.
And our sin will be the greater, now we know our Master's plea-
sure, unless we do it. And therefore, let all such amongst us as
desire to carry ourselves as Christ himself did, and as becometh
His disciples in the world, begin here.
Be submissive and obedient both to our parents and governors,
humble in our own sight, despise none, but be charitable, loving,
and good to all; by this shall all men know that we are Christ's
disciples indeed.
Having thus seen our Saviour's carriage towards men, we shall
now consider His piety and devotion towards God: not as if it
was possible for me to express the excellency and perfection of
those religious acts which He performed continually within His
soul to God, every one of His faculties being as entire in itself,
* Acts x. 38. f Matt. xi. 5. $ Luke xxiii. 34.
388 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGE.
and as perfect in its acts, as it was first made or designed to be.
There was no darkness, nor so much as gloominess in His mind,
no error nor mistake in His judgment, no bribery nor corruption
in His conscience, no obstinacy nor perverseness in His will, no
irregularity nor disorder in His affections, no spot, no blot, no
blemish, not the least imperfection or infirmity in His whole soul.
And, therefore, even whilst His body was on earth, His head and
heart were still in heaven. For He never troubled His head, nor
so much as concerned Himself about anything here below, any
further than to do all the good He could, His thoughts being
'wholly taken up with considering how to advance God's glory and
man's eternal happiness. And as for His heart, that was the altar
on which the sacred fire of Divine love was always burning, the
flames whereof continually ascended up to heaven, being accom-
panied with the most ardent and fervent desires of, and delight in,
the chiefest good.
But it must not be expected that I should give an exact descrip-
tion of that eminent and most perfect holiness which our blessed
Saviour was inwardly adorned with and continually employed in;
which I am as unable to express as desirous to imitate. But how-
soever, I shall endeavour to mind the reader in general of such
acts of piety and devotion, which are particularly recorded, on
purpose for our imitation.
First, therefore, it is observed of our Saviour, that " from a child
he increased in wisdom as he did in stature."* Where by wisdom
we are to understand the knowledge of God and divine things. For
our Saviour having taken our nature into His person, with all its
frailties and infirmities as it is a created being, He did not in that
nature presently know all things which were to be known. It is true,
as God, He then knew all things as well as He had from all eter-
nity; but we are now speaking of Him as man, like one of us in
all things except sin. But we continue some considerable time
aftei we are bom before we know anything, or come to the use of
our reason ; the rational soul not being able to exert or manifest
itself until the natural phlegm and radical moisture of the body,
* Luke ii. 52.
BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. 389
which in infants is predominant, be so digested that the body be
rightly qualified, and its organs fitted for the soul to work upon
and to make use of. And though our Saviour came to the use of
His reason, as man, far sooner than we are wont to do, yet we
must not think that He knew all things as soon as He was born;
for that the nature He assumed was not capable of; neither could
He then be said, as He is, to increase in wisdom, for where there
is perfection there can be no increase.
But here, before we proceed further, it will be necessary to
answer an objection which some may make against this. For, if
our Saviour as man knew not all things, then He was not perfect,
not absolutely free from sin, ignorance itself being, a sin.
To this I have these things to answer: first, it is no sin for a
creature to be ignorant of some things, because it is impossible for
a creature to know all things; for to be omniscient is God's prero-
gative ; neither is a creature capable of it, because he is but
finite ; whereas, the knowledge of all things, or omniscience, is
itself an infinite act, and therefore to be performed only by an
infinite being. Hence it is that no creature in the world ever was
or ever could be made omniscient; but there are many things
which Adam in his integrity and the very angels themselves are
ignorant of; as our Saviour, speaking of the day of judgment,
saith, " Of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels
which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father."* But the
angels are nevertheless perfect, because they know not this. Nay,
it is observable that the Son himself, as man, knew it not: neither,
saith He, " the Son, but the Father :" and if He knew it not then,
much less was it necessary for Him to know it when a child.
Secondly, as to be ignorant of some things is no sin, so neither
is any ignorance at all sin but that whereby a man is ignorant of
what he is bound to know: "For all sin is the transgression of
the law." And, therefore, if there be no law obliging me to know
such or such things, I do not sin by being ignorant of them, for I
transgress no law. Now, though all men are bound by the law of
God to know Him, and their duty to Him ; yet infants, so long as
* Mark xiii. 32.
390 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP BEVERIDGE.
infants, are not, neither can be obnoxious or subject to that law,
they being in a natural incapacity, yea, impossibility to perform it;
but as they become by degrees capable of knowing anything, they
are obliged questionless to know Him first from whom they receive
their knowledge.
And thus it was that our blessed Saviour perfectly fulfilled the
law of God ; in that, although He might still continue ignorant of
many things, yet, howsoever, He all along knew all that He was
bound to know, and as He grew by degrees more and more capable
of knowing anything, so did He increase still more in true wisdom,
in the knowledge of God : so that by the time He was twelve years
old, He was able to dispute with the great doctors and learned
rabbies among the Jews ; and after that, as He grew in stature, so
did He grow in wisdom too, and in favour both with God and man.
And, verily, although we did not follow our blessed Saviour in
this particular when we were children, we ought, howsoever, to
endeavour it now we are men and women, even to grow in wisdom,
and every day add something to our spiritual stature, so as to let
never a day pass over our heads without being better acquainted
with God's goodness to us, or our duty to Him. And by this
example of our Saviour's growing in wisdom when a child, we
should also learn to bring up our children in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord ; and not to strive so much to make them
rich, as to use all means to make them wise and good, that they
may do as their Saviour did, even grow in wisdom and in stature,
and in favour both of God and man.
And as our Saviour grew in wisdom when a child, so did He
use and manifest it when He came to be a man, by devoting Him-
self wholly unto the service of the living God, and to the exercise
of all true grace and virtue ; wherein His blessed soul was so much
taken up that He had neither time nor heart to mind those toys
and trifles which silly mortals upon earth are so much apt to dote
on. It is true, all the world was His, but He had given it all away
to others, not reserving for Himself so much as a house to put His
head in.* And what money He had hoarded up you may gather
* Matt. viii. 20.
BISHOP BEVERIDGE.] THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. 391
from His working a miracle to pay His tribute or poll money, which
came not to much above a shilling. Indeed, He came into
the world, and went out again, without ever taking any notice of
any pleasures, honours, or riches in it, as if there had been no such
thing there, as really there was not or ever will be ; all the pomp
and glory of this deceitful world having no other being in existence
but only in our distempered fancies and imaginations : and therefore
our Saviour, whose fancy was sound, and His imagination untainted,
looked upon all the world and the glory of it as not worthy to be
looked upon, seeing nothing in it wherefore it should be desired.
And therefore, instead of spending His time in the childish pursuit
of clouds and shadows, He made the service of God not only His
business, but His recreation too, His food as well as work. "It is my
meat," saith He, "to do the will of Him that sent me, and to finish
His work."* This was all the riches, honour, and pleasures, which
He sought for in the world, even to do the will of Him that sent
Him thither, to finish the work which He came about ; and so He
did before He went away : "Father, I have glorified thee on earth;
I have finished the work which thou sentest me to do."f If,
therefore, we would be Christ's disciples, so as to follow Him, we
see what we must do, and how we must behave and carry ourselves
whilst we are here below; we must not spend our time nor throw
away our precious and short-lived days upon the trifles and imper-
tinences of this transient world, as if we came hither for nothing
else but to take and scrape up a little dust and dirt together, or to
wallow ourselves like swine in the mire of carnal pleasures and
delights. No, we may assure ourselves we have greater things to
do, and far more noble designs to carry on, whilst we continue in
this vale of tears, even " to work out our salvation with fear and
trembling, and to make our calling and election sure," and to serve
God here so as to enjoy Him for ever. This is the work we came
about, and which we must not only do, but do it too with pleasure
and delight, and never leave until we have accomplished it; we
must make it our only pleasure to please God, account it our only
honour to honour Him, and esteem His love and favour to be the
* John iv. 34. f John xvii. 4.
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[ADDOSON.
only wealth and riches which we can enjoy: we must think ourselves
no further happy than we find ourselves to be truly holy, and there-
fore devote our lives wholly to Him, in whom we live. This is
to live as Christ lived, and by consequence as Christians ought,
to do.
.— Sir fv00er to ff 0fxerl,eg— III.
CHRISTMAS AT SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S.
ADDISON, after a long interval in the production of his papers on the worthy
knight whom he had adopted for his own, brings him to London. His charac-
ter will now be brought out under new aspects. The following passages are
from the "Spectator," No. 269.
" I was this morning surprised with a great knocking at the
door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me, and told me
that there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon my
asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave elderly
person, but that she did not know his name. I immediately went
down to him, and found him to be the coachman of my worthy
ADDISON.] SJJt ROGEK DE COVERLEY. 393
friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He told me that his master came
to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me in
Gray's Inn walks. As I was wondering with myself what had
brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately received any letter
from him, he told me that his master was come up to get a sight
of Prince Eugene, and that he desired I would immediately meet
him.
" I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old knight,
though I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say
more than once in private discourse, that he looked upon Prince
Eugenic (for so the knight calls him) to be a greater man than
Scanderbeg.
" I was no sooner come into Gray's Inn walks, but I heard my
friend hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigour, for
he loves to clear his pipes in good air, (to make use of his own
phrase,) and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice
of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems.
" I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old
man, who, before he saw me, was engaged in conversation with a
beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my
friend chide him for not finding out some work; but at the same
time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him sixpence.
" Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of
many kind shakes of the hand, and several affectionate looks
which we cast upon one another. After which the knight told me
my good friend his chaplain was very well, and much at my ser-
vice, and that the Sunday before he had made a most incompar-
able sermon out of Dr Barrow. ' I have left,' says he, ' all my
affairs in his hands ; and being willing to lay an obligation upon
him, have deposited with him thirty marks, to be distributed
among his poor parishioners.'
" He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare of Will
Wimble. Upon which he put his hand into his fob, and presented
me, in his name, with a tobacco-stopper, telling me that Will had
been busy all the beginning of the winter in turning great quan-
tities of them; and that he made a present of one to every gentle-
394 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOK.
man in the county who has good principles and smokes. He
added, that poor Will was at present under great tribulation, for
that Tom Touchy had taken the law of him for cutting some hazel-
sticks out of one of his hedges.
"Among other pieces of news which the knight brought from
his country-seat, he informed me that Moll White was dead, and
that about a month after her death the wind was so very high that
it blew down the end of one of his barns. ' But for my own part/
says Sir Roger, * I do not think that the old woman had any hand
in it.'
" He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions which had
passed in his house during the holidays ; for Sir Roger, after the
laudable custom of his ancestors, always keeps open house at
Christmas.
" I learned from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for this
season; that he had dealt about his chines very liberally amongst
his neighbours, and that in particular he had sent a string of hogs'
puddings, with a pack of cards, to every poor family in the parish.
' I have often thought/ says Sir Roger, ' it happens very well that
Christmas should fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most
dead, uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people would
suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if they had not good
cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gambols to support them. I
love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the
whole village merry in my great hall. I allow a double quantity
of malt to my small-beer, and set it a running for twelve days to
every one that calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef
and a mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to
see my tenants pass away a whole evening in playing their inno-
cent tricks, and smutting one another. Our friend Will Wimble
is as merry as any of them, and shows a thousand roguish tricks
upon these occasions
" Having passed away the greatest part of the morning in hearing
the knight's reflections, which were partly private and partly politi-
cal, he asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish of
coffee at Squires's. As I love the old man, I take delight in com-
ADDISON.] SfX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 395
plying with everything that is agreeable to him, and accordingly
waited on him to the coffee-house, where his venerable figure drew
upon us the eyes of the whole room. He had no sooner seated
himself at the upper end of the high table, but he called for a clean
pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish of coffee, a wax-candle, and the
Supplement, with such an air of cheerfulness and good humour,
that all the boys in the coffee-room (who seemed to take pleasure
in serving him) were at once employed on his several errands, in-
somuch that nobody else could come at a dish of tea until the
knight had got all his conveniences about him."
When Addison has got Sir Roger fairly in London, he will not trust him to
inferior hands. The " Spectator," No. 329, is a genuine morsel of quiet
humour. The idea of the good old country squire displaying his historical
knowledge, upon the strength of Baker's "Chronicle," is highly amusing.
Nothing can be happier than his wonder that he did not find the history of
the wax-work maid of honour in the State Annals of Queen Elizabeth.
"My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t'other night,
that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster Abbey, in
which, says he, there are a great many ingenious fancies. He told
me at the same time that he observed I had promised another
paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see
them with me, not having visited them since he had read history.
I could not imagine at first how this came into the knight's head,
till I recollected that he had been busy all last summer upon Baker's
" Chronicle," which he has quoted several times in his disputes with
Sir Andrew Freeport since his last coming to town. Accordingly
I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we might go
together to the abbey. ... As we went up the body of the
church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the new
monuments, and cried out, * A brave man, I warrant him ! ' Pass-
ing afterwards by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he flung his hand that
way, and cried, 'Sir Cloudesley Shovel! a very gallant man/ As
we stood before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again
after the same manner: <Dr Busby! a great man! he whipped
my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him-
self, if I had not been a blockhead : a very great man ! '
396 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
" We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on the
right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's elbow,
was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the ac-
count he gave us of the lord who had cut off the King of Morocco's
head. Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to
see the statesman Cecil upon his knees ; and concluding them all
to be great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that
martyr to good housewifery who died by the prick of a needle.
Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was maid of honour to
Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name
and family; and, after having regarded her finger for some time, ' I
wonder,' says he, ' that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of
her in his " Chronicle." '
" We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where
my old friend, after having heard that the stone under the most
ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called
Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the chair, and, looking like the
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter what authority
they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland. The
fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him that he hoped
his honour would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a
little ruffled upon being thus trepanned; but our guide not insist-
ing upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humour,
and whispered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and
saw those chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-
stopper out of one or t'other of them.
"Sir Roger in the next place laid his hand upon Edward III.'s
sword, and, leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole
history of the Black Prince, concluding that in Sir Richard Baker's
opinion Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat
upon the English throne.
"We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb; upon
which Sir Roger acquainted us that he was the first who touched
for the evil: and afterward Henr£ IV.'s, upon which he shook his
head, and told us there was fine reading in the casualties of that
reign.
CARLYLE.] WORK. 397
" Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is
the figure of one of our English kings without a head ; and upon
giving us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had
been stolen away several years since — ' Some Whig, I '11 warrant
you/ says Sir Roger : ' you ought to lock up your kings better 5
they will carry off the body too, if you don't take care.'
" The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave
the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to
Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight observed with some sur-
prise, had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had
not seen in the abbey.
" For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight
show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such
a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes.
" I must not omit that the benevolence of my good old friend,
which flows out towards every one he converses with, made him
very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraor-
dinary man, for which reason he shook him by the hand at part-
ing, telling him that he should be very glad to see him at his
lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him
more at leisure."
66.— M0tL CARLYLE.
[THOMAS CARLYLE, one of the most remarkable writers of our own times,
is a native of Scotland. His mind has been chiefly formed in the German
school of literature and philosophy ; but he rises far above the character of a
mere imitator. His style is entirely his own— at first repulsive, — but when
familiar to the reader, highly exciting. Perhaps this style may occasionally
gild over common thoughts ; but Mr Carlyle's thoughts are, for the most part,
of a solid metal that requires no plating. In graphic power of description,
whether of scenes or of characters, he has not a living equal. There are pas-
sages in his " French Revolution, a History," which can never be forgotten by
any reader of imagination. His "Cromwell's Letters and Speeches" is a most
valuable contribution to English history. His "History of Frederick the
Great," recently completed in five volumes, exhibits an amount of patient
labour rarely equalled. This great work has necessarily been less popular than
many of Mr Carlyle's previous writings, although the intrinsic importance of
the subject, in illustration of the modern history of Europe, cannot be under-
valued even by those who shrink from minute details of the rise of the House
of Brandenburg. The following extract is from " Past and Present :" — ]
398 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CARLYLE.
There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work.
Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is
always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works ; in idle-
ness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so Mammonish,
mean, is in communication with Nature ; the real desire to get
work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's
appointments and regulations, which are truth.
The latest Gospel in this world is, know thy work and do it.
"Know thyself;" long enough has that poor "self" of thine tor-
mented thee; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I believe ! Think
it not thy business, this of knowing thyself; thou art an unknow-
able individual : know what thou canst work at, and work at it like
a Hercules ! That will be thy better plan.
It has been written "an endless significance lies in work;" as
man perfects himself by writing. Foul jungles are cleared away,
fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities; and withal the
man himself first ceases to be a jungle and foul unwholesome
desert thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of
Labour, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real
harmony, the instant he sets himself to work! Doubt, Desire, Sor-
row, Remorse, Indignation, Despair itself, all these like hell-dogs
lie beleaguering the soul of the poor day-worker, as of every man;
but as he bends himself with free valour against his task, all these
are stilled, all these shrink murmuring afar off into their caves.
The man is now a man. The blessed glow of Labour in him, is
it not a purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up, and of sour
smoke itself there is made bright blessed flame 1
Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. A
formless Chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and ever rounder;
ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata, spherical
courses; is no longer a Chaos, but a round compacted World.
What would become of the Earth, did she cease to revolve 1 In
the poor old Earth, so long as she revolves, all inequalities, irregu-
larities, disperse themselves; all irregularities are incessantly be-
coming regular. Hast thou looked on the Potter's wheel, one of
the venerablest objects; old as the prophet Ezekiel, and far older?
CARLYLE.] WORK. 399
Rude lumps of clay; how they spin themselves up, by mere quick
whirling, into beautiful circular dishes. And fancy the most assi-
duous Potter, but without his wheel, reduced to make dishes, or
rather amorphous botches, by mere kneading and baking ! Even
such a Potter were Destiny, with a human soul that would rest and
lie at ease, that would not work and spin ! Of an idle unrevolving
man the kindest Destiny, like the most assiduous Potter without
wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch ; let her
spend on him what expensive colouring, what gilding and enamel-
ling she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulging,
kneaded, crooked, shambling, squint-cornered, amorphous botch,
a mere enamelled vessel of dishonour ! Let the idle think of this.
Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other
blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; he has found it, and
will follow it ! How, as the free flowing channel, dug and torn
by noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence,
like an ever-deepening river there, it runs and flows; draining oft
the sour festering water gradually from the root of the remotest
grass blade ; making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green fruit-
ful meadow with its clear flowing stream. How blessed for the
meadow itself, let the stream and its value be great or small!
Labour is life ; from the inmost heart of the Worker rises his God-
given force, the sacred celestial life-essence, breathed into him by
Almighty God; from his inmost heart awakens him to all noble-
ness, to all knowledge, " self-knowledge," and much else, so soon
as Work fitly begins. Knowledge ! the knowledge that will hold
good in working, cleave thou to that ; for Nature herself accredits
that, says Yea to that Properly thou hast no other knowledge
but what thou hast got by working; the rest is yet all an hypothe-
sis of knowledge: a thing to be argued of in schools, a thing
floating in the clouds, in endless logic vortices, till we try it and
fix it. "Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by Action alone."
And again, hast thou valued Patience, Courage, Perseverance,
Openness to light; readiness to own thyself mistaken, to do better
next time ? All these, all virtues, in wrestling with the dim brute
Powers of fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such wrestle, there,
400 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CARLYLE.
and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually learn. Set down a
brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black ruined stoneheaps,
of foolish unarchitectural Bishops, red-tape Officials, idle Nell
Gwyn Defenders of the Faith; and see whether he will ever raise
a Paul's Cathedral out of all that, yea or no ! Rough, rude, con-
tradictory are all things and persons, from the mutinous masons
and Irish hodmen, up to the idle Nell Gwyn Defenders, to bluster-
ing red-tape Officials, foolish unarchitectural Bishops. All these
things and persons are there, not for Christopher's sake and his
cathedrals; they are there for their own sake mainly! Christopher
will have to conquer and constrain all these, if he be able. All
these are against him. Equitable Nature herself, who carries her
mathematics and architectonics not on the face of her, but deep
in the hidden heart of her — Nature herself is but partially for him;
wiH be wholly against him, if he constrain her not ! His very
money, where is it to come from? The pious munificence of
England lies far scattered, distant, unable to speak, and say, " I
am here;" — must be spoken to before it can speak. Pious munifi-
cence, and all help, is so silent, invisible like the gods ; impedi-
ment, contradictions manifold are so loud and near ! O brave
Sir Christopher, trust thou in those, notwithstanding, and front all
these; understand all these; by valiant patience, noble effort, in-
sight, vanquish and compel all these, and, on the whole, strike
down victoriously the last topstone of that Paul's edifice: thy
monument for certain centuries, the stamp "Great Man" impressed
very legibly in Portland stone there !
Yes, all manner of work, and pious response from Men or
Nature, is always what we call silent; cannot speak or come to
light till it be seen, till it be spoken to. Every noble work is at
first "impossible." In very truth, for every noble work the possi-
bilities will lie diffused through Immensity, inarticulate, undis-
coverable except to faith, Like Gideon, thou shalt spread out
thy fleece at the door of thy tent; see whether, under the wide
arch of Heaven, there be any bounteous moisture, or none. Thy
heart and life-purpose shall be as a miraculous Gideon's fleece,
spread out in silent appeal to Heaven; and from the kind
CARLYLE.] WORK. 4°*
Immensities, what from the poor unkind Localities and town
and country Parishes there never could, blessed dew-moisture to
suffice thee shall have fallen !
Work is of a religious nature: work is of a brave nature; which
it is the aim of all religion to be. " All work of man is as the
swimmer's:" a waste ocean threatens to devour him; if he front
it not bravely, it will keep its word. By incessant wise defiance
of it, lusty rebuke and buffet of it, behold how it loyally supports
him, bears him as its conqueror along. " It is so," says Goethe,
" with all things that man undertakes in this world."
Brave Sea-captain, Norse Sea-king — Columbus, my hero, royalest
Sea-king of all! it is no friendly environment this of thine, in the
waste deep waters; around thee mutinous discouraged souls,
behind thee disgrace and ruin, before thee the unpenetrated veil
of night Brother, these wild water-mountains, bounding from
their deep bases (ten miles deep, I am told) are not entirely
there on thy behalf ! Meseems they have other work than floating
thee forward: — and the huge Winds that sweep from Ursa Major
to the Tropics and Equators, dancing their giant waltz through
the kingdoms of Chaos and Immensity, they care little about
filling rightly or filling wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails
in this cockle skiff of thine! Thou art not among articulate
speaking friends, my brother; thou art among immeasurable
dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as the world here.
Secret, far off, invisible to all hearts but thine, there lies a help
in them : see how thou wilt get at that. Patiently thou wilt wait
till the mad South-wester spend itself, saving thyself by dexterous
science of defence the while; valiantly, with swift decision, wilt
thou strike in, when the favouring East, the Possible, springs up.
Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly repress; weakness, despondency,
thou wilt cheerily encourage; thou wilt swallow down complaint,
unreason, weariness, weakness of others and thyself; — how much
wilt thou swallow down ! There shall be a depth of Silence in
thee, deeper than this Sea, which is but ten miles deep; a Silence
unsoundable ; known to God only. Thou shalt be a great Man.
Yes, my World-Soldier, thou of the world Marine-Service — thou
VOL. i. 2 c
4°2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CARLYI.E.
wilt have to be greater than this tumultuous unmeasured World
here round thee is: thqu, in thy strong soul, as with wrestler's
arms, shalt embrace it, harness it down; and make it bear thee
on — to new Americas, or whither God wills !
Religion, I said; for, properly speaking, all true Work is
Religion; and whatsoever Religion is not Work may go and
dwell among the Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or
where it will ; with me it shall have no harbour. Admirable was
that of the old Monks, " Laborare est Orare, Work is Worship."
Older than all preached Gospels was this unpreached, inarticu-
late, but ineradicable, for-ever- enduring Gospel: Work, and therein
have well-being. Man, Son of Earth and of Heaven, lies there
not, in the innermost heart of thee, a Spirit of active Method, a
Force for Work ; — and burns like a painfully smouldering fire, giving
thee no rest till thou unfold it, till thou write it down in beneficent
Facts around thee! What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make
methodic, regulated, arable; obedient and productive to thee.
Wheresoever thou findest Disorder, there is thy eternal enemy;
attack him swiftly, subdue him; make Order of him, the subject,
not of Chaos, but of Intelligence, Divinity and Thee ! The
thistle that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful
grass, a drop of nourishing milk, may grow there instead. The
waste cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it;
that, in place of idle litter, there may be folded webs, and the
naked skin of man be covered.
But above all, where thou findest Ignorance, Stupidity, Brute-
mindedness — attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and
rest not while thou livest and it lives ; but smite, smite in the
name of God ! The Highest God, as I understand it, does
audibly so command thee : still audibly, if thou have ears to hear.
He, even He, with His unspoken voice, fuller than any Sinai
thunders, or syllabled speech of Whirlwinds ; for the SILENCE of
deep Eternities, of Worlds from beyond the morning-stars, does it
not speak to thee ? The unborn Ages ; the old Graves, with their
long-mouldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry —
BEN JONSON.] SC£XES FROM " THE ALCHEMIST." 403
do not these speak to thee what ear hath not heard ? The deep
Death-kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all Space
and all Time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition.
Thou too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is called To-
day. For the Night cometh wherein no man can work.
All true Work is sacred ; in all true Work, were it but true hand-
labour, there is something of divineness. Labour, wide as the
Earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow ; and up
from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart ; which in-
cludes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all Sciences,
all spoken Epics, all acted Heroisms, Martyrdoms — up to that
" Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine ! O
brother, if this is not " worship," then I say, the more pity for
worship ; for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's
sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil ? Com-
plain not. Look up, my wearied brother ; see thy fellow-work-
men there, in God's Eternity ; surviving there, they alone surviv-
ing ; sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Body-guard of the
Empire of Mankind. Even in the weak Human Memory they
survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods ; they alone surviv-
ing; peopling, they alone, the immeasured solitudes of Time! To
thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind ; Heaven is kind — as
a noble Mother ; as that Spartan Mother, saying while she gave
her son his shield, "With it, my son, or upon it!" Thou too
shalt return home, in honour to thy far-distant Home, in honour ;
doubt it not — if in the battle thou keep thy shield ! Thou, in the
Eternities and deepest Death-kingdoms, art not an alien ; thou
everywhere art a denizen ! Complain not ; the very Spartans did
not complain*
C7.— Stems &0m " ®&
BEN JONSON.
[" O RARE BEN JONSON !"— the inscription on his tomb-stone in Westminster
Abbey, which a mason cut for eighteenpence, to please a looker on when the
grave was covering — is a familiar phrase to many who have not even opened
404 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BE
the works of this celebrated man. Jonson was born in 1574, and died in
1637. He was a ripe scholar — a most vigorous thinker. There are passages
and delineations of character in his plays, which are matchless of their kind ;
—but he is the dramatist of peculiarities, then called "humours ;" — he is the
converse of what he described Shakspere to be — he is "for an age," and not
"for all time."]
Lovewit, a housekeeper in London, has fled to the country during a season
when the plague was raging. His servant, Face, abusing his opportunities,
admits an impostor, Subtle, and his female confederate, Dol, into the house ;
and there the three worthies carry on a profitable trade by pretending to tell
fortunes, and transmute metals into gold. The first scene exhibits the Al-
chemist and the servant in high quarrel. We pass over this scene, and proceed
to others which exhibit some of the more remarkable personifications of Jon-
son's times : —
SCENE I.
A principal figure in "The Alchemist" is Abel Drugger, a tobacco dealer,
who wants to learn a quick way to be rich :—
Sub. What is your name, say you — Abel Drugger ?
Drug. Yes, sir.
Sub. A seller of tobacco ?
Drug. Yes, sir.
Sub. Umph.
Free of the grocers 1
Drug. Ay, an't please you.
Sub. Well—
Your business, Abel ?
Drug. This, an't please your worship ;
I am a young beginner, and am building
Of a new shop, and, like your worship, just
At corner of a street : — Here's the plot on't —
And I would know by art, sir, of your worship,
Which way I should make my door, by necromancy,
And where my shelves ; and which should be for boxes,
And which for pots. I would be glad to thrive, sir :
And I was wish'd to your worship by a gentleman,
One Captain Face, that says you know men's planets,
And their good angels, and their bad. .
BEN JONSON.] SCENES FROM " THE ALCHEMIST." 405
Sub. I do,
If I do see them.
Re-enter FACE.
Face. What ! My honest Abel ?
Thou art well met here.
Drug. Troth, sir, I was speaking,
Just as your worship came here, of your worship :
I pray you speak for me to master doctor.
Face. He shall do anything. Doctor, do you hear 1
This is my friend, Abel, an honest fellow ;
He lets me have good tobacco, and he does not
Sophisticate it with sack-lees or oil,
Nor washes it in muscadel and grains,
Nor buries it in gravel under ground,
But keeps it in fine lily-pots, that, open'd,
Smell like conserve of roses or French beans.
He has his maple block, his silver tongs,
Winchester pipes, and fire of juniper:
A neat, spruce, honest fellow, and no goldsmith.
Sub. He is a fortunate fellow, that I am sure on.
Face. Already sir, have you found it ? Lo thee, Abel !
Sub. And in right way toward riches —
Face. Sir !
Sub. This summer
He will be of the clothing of his company,
And next spring calFd to the scarlet; spend what he can.
Face. What! and so little beard?
Sub. Sir, you must think,
He may have a receipt to make hair come:
But he '11 be wise, preserve his youth, and fine for 't;
His fortune looks for him another way.
Face. 'Slid, doctor, how canst thou know this so soon I
I am amused at that!
Sub. By a rule, captain,
In metoposcopy, which I do work by:
A certain star in the forehead, which you see not.
406 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BEN JONSOM.
Your chestnut or your olive-colour'd face
Does never fail: and your long ear doth promise.
I knew % by certain spots, too, in his teeth,
And on the nail of his mercurial finger.
Face. Which finger's that?
Sub. His little finger.
You were born upon a Wednesday]
Drug. Yes, indeed, sir.
Sub. The thumb, in chiromancy, we give Venus ;
The fore-finger, to Jove ; the midst, to Saturn ;
The ring, to Sol; the least, to Mercury;
Who was the lord, sir, of his horoscope,
His house of life being Libra; which foreshoVd,
He should be a merchant, and should trade with balance.
Face. Why, this is strange! Is it not, honest Nab1?
Sub. There is a ship now, coming from Ormus,
That shall yield him such a commodity
Of drugs — This is the west, this the south?
[Pointing to the plan.
Drug. Yes, sir.
Sub. And those are your two sides 1
Drug. Ay, sir.
Sub. Make me your door, then, south; your broadside west;
And on the east side of your shop, aloft,
Write Mathlai, Tarmiel, and Baraborat;
Upon the north part, Rael, Velel, Thiel.
They are the names of those mercurial spirits
That do fright flies from boxes.
Drug. Yes, sir.
Sub. And
Beneath your threshold bury me a loadstone
To draw in gallants that wear spurs ! the rest
They '11 seem to follow.
Face. That's a secret, Nab !
Why, how now, Abel ! Is this true %
Drug. Good captain,
BEN JONSON ] SCENES FROM " THE ALCHEMIST." 407
What must I give? [Aside to FACE.
Face. Nay, I '11 not counsel thee.
Thou hear'st what wealth (he says, spend what thou canst)
Thou 'rt like to come to.
Drug. I would gi' him a crown.
Face. A crown ! And toward such a fortune 1 Heart,
Thou shalt rather gi' him thy shop. No gold about thee ?
Drug. Yes, I have a Portague, I have kept this half-year.
Face. Out on thee, Nab ! 'Slight, there was such an offer.
Shalt keep 't no longer, I'll giv't him for thee. Doctor,
- Nab prays your worship to drink this, and sweats
He will appear more grateful, as your skill
Does raise him in the world.
Drug. I would entreat
Another favour of his worship.
Face. What is 't, Nab?
Drug. But to look over, sir, my almanac,
And cross out my ill days, that I may neither
Bargain nor trust upon them.
Face. That he shall, Nab.
Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst afternoon.
Sub. And a direction for his shelves.
Face. Now, Nab,
Art thou well pleased, Nab ?
Drug. 'Thank, sir, both your worships.
Face. Away. [Exit DRUGGER.
Why, now, you smoky persecutor of nature !
Now do you see that something 's to be done,
Beside your beech-coal, and your corsive waters,
Your crosslets, crucibles, and cucurbites?
You must have stuff brought home to you, to work on:
And yet you think I am at no expense
In searching out these veins, then following them,
Then trying them out
Sub. You are pleasant, sir.
Dol. I have spied Sir Epicure Mammon
408 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BENJONSON.
Sub. Where?
Dol. Coming along, at far end of the lane,
Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue
To one that 's with him.
Sub. Face, go you and shift. [Exit FACE.
Dol, you must presently make ready, too.
Dol. Why, what 's the matter 1
Sub. Oh, I did look for him
With the sun's rising: marvel he could sleep.
This is the day I am to perfect for him
The magisterium, our great work, the stone ;
And yield it, made, into his hands : of which
He has, this month, talk'd as he were possess' d,
And how he 's dealing pieces on 't away.
I see no end of his labours. He will make
Nature ashamed of her long sleep: when art,
Who 's but a step-dame, shall do more than she,
In her best love to mankind, ever could :
If his dream last, he '11 turn the age to gold. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The following exhibition of the character of a covetous sensualist is, perhaps,
unequalled in the whole range of the drama. We cannot, however, show how
thoroughly Jonson has worked up the idea : his coarseness is unbounded : —
Entry SIR EPICURE MAMMON, and SURLY.
Mam. Come on, sir. Now, you set your foot on shore
In Novo Orbe; here 's the rich Peru :
And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
Great Solomon's Ophir ! he was sailing to 't
Three years, but we have reach' d it in ten months :
This is the day wherein, to all my friends,
I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich:
Where is my Subtle, there ? Within, ho !
Face (within.} Sir, he '11 come to you by and by.
Mam. That is his fire-drake,
BEN JONSON.] SCENES FROM " THE ALCHEMIST." 409
His Lungs, his Zephyrus — he that puffs his coals
Till he firk nature up in her own centre.
You are not faithful, sir. This night, I '11 change
All that is metal in my house to gold:
And, early in the morning, will I send
To all the plumbers and the pewterers,
And buy their tin and lead up; and to Lothbury
For all the copper.
Sur. What, and turn that too ?
Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire and Cornwall,
And make them perfect Indies! You admire now?
Sur. No, faith.
Mam. But when you see th' effects of the great medicine,
Of which one part projected on a hundred
Of Mercury, or Venus, or the Moon,
Shall turn it to as many of the Sun;
Nay, to a thousand, so adinfinitum:
You will believe me.
Sur. Yes, when I see 't, I will.
Mam. Do you think I fable with you ? I assure you,
He that has once the flower of the sun,
The perfect ruby, which we call Elixir,
Not only can do that, but, by its virtue,
Can confer honour, love, respect, long life;
Give safety, valour, yea, and victory,
To whom he will In eight and twenty days,
I '11 make an old man of fourscore a child !
Sur. No doubt; he's that already.
Enter FACE, as a servant.
How now?
Do we succeed ? Is our day come ? And holds it ?
Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir !
You have colour for it, crimson; the red ferment
Has done his office ; three hours hence prepare you
To see projection.
410 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, [BEN JONSON.
Mam. Pertinax, my Surly,
Again I say to thee aloud, Be rich.
This day thou shalt have ingots ; and to-morrow
Give lords th' affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right I
Blushes the bolt's head?
My only care is,
Where to get stuff enough now, to project on;
This town will not half serve me.
Face. No, sir? buy
The covering off o' churches.
Mam. That 's true.
Face. Yes.
Let them stand bare, as do their auditory;
Or cap them, new, with shingles.
Mam. No, good thatch:
Thatch will be light upon the rafters, Lungs.
Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace;
I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff,
Lost in the embers; and repair this brain,
Hurt with the fume tf the metals.
Face. I have blown, sir,
Hard for your worship ; thrown by many a coal,
When 'twas not beech; weigh'd those I put in, just
To keep your heat still even; these blear'd eyes
Have waked to read your several colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow,
The peacock's tail, the plumed swan.
Mam. And, lastly,
Thou hast descried the flower, the sanguis agni?
Face. Yes, sir.
Mam. We will be brave, Puff, now we have the med'cine.
My meat shall all come in in Indian shells,
Dishes of agate set in gold, and studded
With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies.
The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels
Boil'd in the spirit of Sol, and dissolved pearl,
CLARENDON.] THE FALL OF THE MARQUIS OF MONTRQSE. 411
Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy:
And I will eat these broths with spoons of amber,
Headed with diamond and carbuncle.
My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd salmons,
Knots, godwits, lampreys : I myself will have
The beards of barbels served, instead of sallads;
Oil'd mushrooms; and the swelling unctuous paps
Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Drest with an exquisite, and poignant sauce ;
For which, I '11 say unto my cook, Therms gold,
Go forth, and be a knight.
Face. Sir, I '11 go look
A little how it heightens.
Mam. Do. My shirts
I '11 have of taffeta — sarsnet, soft and light
As cobwebs; and for all my other raiment,
It shall be such as might provoke a Persian,
Were he to teach the world riot anew.
My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins, perfumed
With gums of paradise, and eastern air —
CONCLUSION.
The master suddenly returns, and the whole imposture is at length dis-
covered. The impudence of the Alchemist, and the lamentations of his dupes,
are inimitably painted.
68.— ff^ <$ all rf % Parqms 0f
CLARENDON.
[EDWARD HYDE, Earl of Clarendon, was the third son of Henry Hyde, a
gentleman of good fortune, of Dinton, in Wiltshire. He was educated at
Magdalen College, Oxford; became a student of the Middle Temple; and
was returned to Parliament in 1640. Thenceforward his political career forms
a considerable part of the history of his country. He was perhaps one of the
most honest of the counsellors of Charles I., and the most virtuous in the pro-
fligate court of his son. After the Restoration, he rose to the highest offices in
the State; but his faithful services were eventually rewarded by disgrace and
412 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON.
banishment. His "History of the Great Rebellion" is one of those few
books that are "for all time." The following extract has been justly called
•' one of the finest passages in Lord Clarendon's History :"] —
His design had always been to land in the Highlands of Scot-
land, before the winter season should be over, both for the safety
of his embarkation, and that he might have time to draw those
people together who, he knew, would be willing to repair to him,
before it should be known at Edinburgh that he was landed in the
kingdom. He had, by frequent messages, kept a constant corre-
spondence with those principal heads of the clans who were most
powerful in the Highlands, and were of known or unsuspected
affection to the king, and advertised them of all his motions and
designs. And by them acquainted those of the Lowlands of all
his resolutions, who had promised, upon the first notice of his
arrival, to resort with all their friends and followers to him.
Whether these men did really believe that their own strength
would be sufficient to subdue their enemies, who were grown
generally odious, or thought the bringing over troops of foreigners
would lessen the numbers and affections of the natives, they did
write very earnestly to the marquis, " to hasten his coming over
with officers, arms, and ammunition; for which he should find
hands enough:" and gave him notice, "that the committee of
estates at Edinburgh had sent again to the king to come over to
them; and that the people were so impatient for his presence,
that Argyle was compelled to consent to the invitation." It is
very probable that this made the greatest impression upon him.
He knew very well how few persons there were about the king
[Charles II.] who were like to continue firm in those principles,
which could only confirm his majesty in his former resolutions
against the persuasions and importunities of many others, who
knew how to represent to him the desperateness of his condition
any other way, than by repairing into Scotland upon any condi-
tions. Montrose knew, that of the two factions there, which were
not like to be reconciled, each of them were equally his implacable
enemies; so that, whichsoever prevailed, he should be still in the
CLARENDON.] THE FALL OF THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 413
same state, the whole kirk, of what temper soever, being alike
malicious to him; and hearing likewise of the successive misfor-
tunes in Ireland, he concluded, the king would not trust himself
there. Therefore, upon the whole, and concluding that all his
hopes from Germany and those northern princes would not increase
the strength he had already, he caused, in the depth of the winter,
those soldiers he had drawn together, which did not amount to
above five hundred, to be embarked, and sent officers with them
who knew the country, with directions that they should land in
such a place in the Highlands, and remain there, as they might
well do, till he came to them or sent them orders. And then in
another vessel, manned by people well known to him, and com-
manded by a captain very faithful to the king, and who was well
acquainted with that coast, he embarked himself, and near one
hundred officers, and landed in another creek, not far from the
other place, whither his soldiers were directed. And both the one
and the other party were set safely on shore in the places they
designed; from whence the marquis himself, with some servants
and officers, repaired presently to the house of a gentleman of
quality, with whom he had corresponded, who expected him; by
whom he was well received, and thought himself to be in security
till he might put his affairs in some method ; and therefore ordered
his other small troops to contain themselves in those uncouth
quarters, in which they were, and where he thought they were not
likely to be disturbed by the visitation of an enemy.
After he had stayed there a short time, it being in March, about
the end of the year 1649, he quickly possessed himself of an old
castle ; which, in respect of the situation in a country so impossible
for any army to march in, he thought strong enough for his pur-
pose : thither he conveyed the arms, ammunition and troops, which
he had brought with him. And then he published his declaration,
" that he came with the king's commission, to assist those his good
subjects, and to preserve them from oppression : that he did not
intend to give any interruption to the treaty that he heard was
entered into with his majesty; but, on the contrary, hoped that
his being at the head of an army, how small soever, that was faith-
414 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON
ful to the king, might advance the same. However, he had given
sufficient proof in his former actions, that if any agreement were
made with the king, upon the first order from his majesty, he
should lay down his arms, and dispose himself according to his
majesty's good pleasure." These declarations he sent to his
friends to be scattered by them, and dispersed amongst the people,
as they could be able. He writ likewise to those of the nobility,
and the heads of the several clans, " to draw such forces together,
as they thought necessary to join with him;" and he received
answers from many of them by which they desired him, " to
advance more into the land," (for he was yet in the remotest parts
of Caithness,) and assured him, " that they would meet him with
good numbers :" and they did prepare so to do, some really; and
others, with a purpose to betray him.
In this state stood the affair in the end of the year 1649: but
because the unfortunate tragedy of that noble person succeeded so
soon after, without the intervention of any notable circumstances
to interrupt it, we will rather continue the relation of it in this
place, than defer it to be resumed in the proper season : which
quickly ensued, in the beginning of the next year. The Marquis
of Argyle was vigilant enough to observe the motion of an enemy
that was so formidable to him; and had present information of
his arrival in the Highlands, and of the small forces which he had
brought with him. The Parliament was then sitting at Edinburgh,
their messenger being returned to them from Jersey, with an
account, " that the king would treat with their commissioners at
Breda ;" for whom they were preparing their instructions.
The alarm of Montrose's being landed startled them all, and
gave them no leisure to think of anything else than of sending
forces to hinder the recourse of others to join with him. They
immediately sent Colonel Straghan, a diligent and active officer,
with a choice party of the best horse they had, to make all possible
haste towards him, and to prevent the insurrections, which they
feared would be in several parts of the Highlands. And within
few days after, David Lesley followed with a stronger party of
horse and foot. The encouragement the Marquis of Montrose
CLARENDON.] THE FALL OF THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 415
received from his friends, and the unpleasantness of the quarters
in which he was, prevailed with him to march, with these few
troops, more into the land. And the Highlanders flocking to
him from all quarters, though ill armed, and worse disciplined,
made him undervalue any enemy who, he thought, was yet like to
encounter him. Straghan made such haste, that the Earl of
Sutherland, who at least pretended to have gathered together a
body of fifteen hundred men to meet Montrose, chose rather to
join with Straghan : others did the like, who had made the same
promises, or stayed at home to expect the event of the first en-
counter. The marquis was without any body of horse to discover
the motion of an enemy, but depended upon all necessary intelli-
gence from the affection of the people; which he believed to be
the same as it was when he left them. But they were much degene-
rated ; the tyranny of Argyle, and his having caused very many to
be barbarously murdered, without any form of law or justice, who
had been in arms with Montrose, notwithstanding all acts of par-
don and indemnity, had so broken their hearts, that they were
ready to do all offices that might gratify and oblige him. So that
Straghan was within a small distance of him, before he heard of
his approach; and those Highlanders, who had seemed to come
with much zeal to him, whether terrified or corrupted, left him on
a sudden, or threw down their arms; so that he had none left, but
a company of good officers, and five or six hundred foreigners,
Dutch and Germans, who had been acquainted with their officers.
With these, he betook himself to a place of some advantage by
the inequality of the ground, and the bushes and small shrubs
which filled it : and there they made a defence for some time with
notable courage.
But the enemy being so much superior in number, the common
soldiers, being all foreigners, after about a hundred of them were
killed upon the place, threw down their arms; and the marquis
seeing all lost, threw away his ribbon and George, (for he was a
knight of the garter,) and found means to change his clothes with
a fellow of the country, and so after having gone on foot two or
three miles, he got into a house of a gentleman, where he re-
4 1 6 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [CLARENDON.
mained concealed about two days : most of the other officers were
shortly after taken prisoners, all the country desiring to merit from
Argyle by betraying all those into his hands which they believed
to be his enemies. And, thus, whether by the owner of the house,
or any other way, the marquis himself became their prisoner. The
strangers who were taken were set at liberty, and transported them-
selves into their own countries; and the castle in which there was
a little garrison, presently rendered itself; so that there was no
fear of an enemy in those parts.
The Marquis of Montrose, and the rest of the prisoners, were
the next day, or soon after, delivered to David Lesley; who was
come up with his forces, and had now nothing left to do but to
carry them in triumph to Edinburgh; whither notice was quickly
sent of their great victory, which was received there with wonder-
ful joy and acclamation. David Lesley treated the marquis with
great insolence, and for some days carried him in the same clothes
and habit in which he was taken ; but at last permitted him to buy
better. His behaviour was, in the whole time, such as became a
great man; his countenance serene and cheerful, as one that was
superior to all those reproaches, which they had prepared the
people to pour out upon him in all the places through which he
was to pass.
When he came to one of the gates of Edinburgh, he was met
by some of the magistrates, to whom he was delivered, and by them
presently put into a new cart, purposely made, in which there was
a high chair, or bench, upon which he sat, that the people might
have a full view of him, being bound with a cord drawn over his
breast and shoulders, and fastened through holes made in the cart.
When he was in this posture, the hangman took off his hat, and
rode himself before the cart in his livery, and with his bonnet
on ; the other officers, who were taken prisoners with him, walking
two and two before the cart; the streets and windows being full
of people to behold the triumph over a person whose name had
made them tremble some few years before, and into whose hands
the magistrates of that place had, upon their knees, delivered the
keys of that city. In this manner he was carried to the common
CLARENDON.] THE FALL OF THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 417
jail, where he was received and treated as a common malefactor.
Within two days after, he was brought before the Parliament,
where the Earl of Louden, the chancellor, made a very bitter and
virulent declamation against him : told him " he had broken all
the covenants by which that whole nation stood obliged; and had
impiously rebelled against God, the king, and the kingdom : that he
had committed many horrible murders, treasons, and impieties, for
all which he was now brought to suffer condign punishment; " with
all those insolent reproaches upon his person and his actions
which the liberty of that place gave him leave to use.
Permission was then given him to speak; and without the least
trouble in his countenance, or disorder upon all the indignities he
had suffered, he told them, " since the king had owned them so
far as to treat with them, he had appeared before them with rever-
ence, and bareheaded, which otherwise he would not willingly
have done : that he had done nothing of which he was ashamed,
or had cause to repent; that the first covenant he had taken and
complied with it and with them who took it, as long as the ends
for which it was ordained were observed; but when he dis-
covered, which was now evident to all the world, that private and
particular men designed to satisfy their own ambition and interest,
instead of considering the public benefit ; and that, under the pre-
tence of reforming some errors in religion, they resolved to abridge
and take away the king's just power and lawful authority, he had
withdrawn himself from that engagement : that for the league and
covenant, he had never taken it, and therefore could not break it :
and it was now too apparent to the whole Christian world, what
monstrous mischiefs it had produced : that when, under colour of
it, an army from Scotland had invaded England in assistance of
the rebellion that was then against their lawful king, he had, by
his majesty's command, received a commission from him to raise
forces in Scotland, that he might thereby divert them from the
other odious persecution : that he had executed that commission
with the obedience and duty he owed to the king; and in all the
circumstances of it, had proceeded like a gentleman; and had never
suffered any blood to be shed but in the heat of the battle; and
VOL. I. 2 D
41 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON.
that he saw many persons there whose lives he had saved : that
when the king commanded him, he laid down his arms, and with-
drew out of the kingdom ; which they could not have compelled
him to have done." He said, " he was now again entered into
the kingdom by his majesty's command, and with his authority:
and what success soever it might have pleased God to have given
him, he would have always obeyed any commands he should have
received from him," He advised them "to consider well of
the consequence before they proceeded against him, and that all
his actions might be examined, and judged by the laws of the land,
or those of nations.''
As soon as he had ended his discourse, he was ordered to with-
draw ; and, after a short space, was again brought in ; and told by
the chancellor, " that he was, on the morrow, being the one and
twentieth of May 1560, to be carried to Edinburgh Cross, and
to be hanged upon a gallows thirty feet high, for the space of three
hours, and then to be taken down, and his head to be cut off
upon a scaffold, and hanged on Edinburgh Tolbooth; his legs
and arms to be hanged up in other public towns of the kingdom,
and his body to be buried at the place where he was to be exe-
cuted, except the kirk should take off his excommunication; and
then his body might be buried in the common place of burial."
He desired, "that he might say somewhat to them;" but was not
suffered, and so was carried back to the prison.
That he might not enjoy any ease or quiet during the short
remainder of his life, their ministers came presently to insult over
him with all the reproaches imaginable ; pronounced his damna-
tion; and assured him, "that the judgment he was the next day
to suffer was but an easy prologue to that which he was to undergo
afterwards." After many such barbarities, they offered to intercede
for him to the kirk upon his repentance, and to pray with him;
but he too well understood the form of their common prayer, in
thoLe cases, to be only the most virulent and insolent impreca-
tions upon the persons of those they prayed against, ("Lord,
vouchsafe yet to touch the obdurate heart of this proud, incorri-
gible sinner, this wicked, perjured, traitorous, and profane person,
CLARENDON.] THE FALL OF THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 419
who refuses to hearken to the voice of Thy kirk," and the like chari-
table expressions,) and therefore he desired them " to spare their
pains, and to leave him to his own devotions." He told them,
"that they were a miserable, deluded, and deluding people; and
would shortly bring that poor nation under the most insupport-
able servitude ever people had submitted to." He told them,
" he was prouder to have his head set upon the place it was ap-
pointed to be than he could have been to have had his picture
hang in the king's bedchamber : that he was so far from being
troubled that his four limbs were to be hanged in four cities of the
kingdom, that he heartily wished that he had flesh enough to be
sent to every city in Christendom, as a testimony of the cause for
which he suffered."
The next day, they executed every part and circumstance of
that barbarous sentence, with all the inhumanity imaginable; and
he bore it with all the courage and magnanimity, and the greatest
piety, that a good Christian could manifest. He magnified the
virtue, courage, and religion of the last king, exceedingly com-
mended the justice, and goodness, and understanding of the present
king; and prayed, "that they might not betray him as they had
done his father." When he had ended all he meant to say, and
was expecting to expire, they had yet one scene more to act of
their tyranny. The hangman brought the book that had been
published of his truly heroic actions, whilst he had commanded
in that kingdom, which book was tied in a small cord that was
put about his neck. The marquis smiled at this new instance of
their malice, and thanked them for it; and said, "he was pleased
that it should be there; and was prouder of wearing it than ever he
had been of the garter;" and so renewing some devout ejacula-
tions, he patiently endured the last act of the executioner.
Thus died the gallant Marquis of Montrose, after he had given
as great a testimony of loyalty and courage, as a subject can do,
and performed as wonderful actions in several battles, upon as
great inequality of numbers, and as great disadvantages in respect
of arms, and other preparations for war, as have been performed
in this age. He was a gentleman of a very ancient extraction,
420 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [T. B. MACAULAY.
many of whose ancestors had exercised the highest charges under
the king in that kingdom, and had been allied to the crown itself.
He was of very good parts, which were improved by a good edu-
cation : he had always a great emulation, or rather a great con-
tempt of the Marquis of Argyle, (as he was too apt to contemn
those he did not love,) who wanted nothing but honesty and
courage to be a very extraordinary man, having all other good
talents in a very great degree. Montrose was in his nature fear-
less of danger, and never declined any enterprise for the difficulty
of going through with it, but exceedingly affected those which
seemed desperate to other men, and did believe somewhat to be
in himself above other men, which made him live more easily to-
wards those who were, or were willing to be, inferior to him,
(towards whom he exercised wonderful civility and generosity,)
than with his superiors or equals. He was naturally jealous, and
suspected those who did not concur with him in the way, not to
mean so well as he. He was not without vanity, but his virtues
were much superior, and he well deserved to have his memory
preserved, and celebrated amongst the most illustrious persons of
the age in which he lived.
69. —
T. B. MACAULAY.
THE characteristic peculiarity of the " Pilgrim's Progress " is
that it is the only work of its kind which possesses a strong human
interest. Other allegories only amuse the fancy. The allegory
of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with tears. There
are some good allegories in Johnson's works, and some of still
higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, per-
haps, as much wit and ingenuity as in the " Pilgrim's Progress."
But the pleasure which is produced by the " Vision of Thirza,"
the " Vision of Theodore," the " Genealogy of Wit," or the
"Contest between Rest and Labour," is exactly similar to the
pleasure which we derive from one of Cowley's odes, or from a
T. B. MACAULAY.] BUNYAN. 421
canto of " Hudibras." It is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the
understanding, and in which the feelings have no part whatever.
Nay, even Spenser himself, though assuredly one of the greatest
poets that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt to make
allegory interesting. It was in vain that he lavished the riches of
his mind on the House of Pride and the House of Temperance.
One unpardonable fault, the fault of tediousness, pervades the
whole of the "Faery Queen." We become sick of cardinal virtues
and deadly sins, and long for the society of plain men and women.
Of the persons who read the first canto, not one in ten reaches the
end of the first book, and not one in a hundred perseveres to the
end of the poem. Very few and very weary are those who are in
at the death of the " Blatant Beast." If the last six books, which
are said to have been destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved,
we doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a commentator
would have held out to the end.
It is not so with the "Pilgrim's Progress." That wonderful
book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics,
is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Doctor John-
son, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said,
to read books through, made an exception in favour of the " Pil-
grim's Progress." That work was one of the two or three works
which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the
illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic
of critics and the most bigoted of Tories. In the wildest parts ot
Scotland the "Pilgrim's Progress" is the delight of the peasantry.
In every nursery the " Pilgrim's Progress " is a greater favourite
than "Jack the Giant-Killer. " Every reader knows the straight
and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has
gone backward and forward a hundred times. This is the highest
miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as though
they were, that the imaginations of one mind should become the
personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has
wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, no
turn-stile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The
wicket-gate, and the desolate swamp which separates it from the
422 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [T. B. MACAULAY.
city of Destruction, the long line of road, as straight as a rule can
make it, the interpreter's house and all its fair shows, the prisoner
in the iron cage, the palace, at the doors of which armed men
kept guard, and on the battlements of which walked persons
clothed all in gold, the cross and the sepulchre, the steep hill and
the pleasant arbour, the stately front of the House Beautiful, by
the way-side, the chained lions crouching in the porch, the low
green valley of Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with
flocks, all are as well known to us as the sights of our own streets.
Then we come to the narrow place where Apollyon strode right
across the whole breadth of the way, to stop the journey of
Christian, and where afterwards the pillar was set up to testify
how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight. As we ad-
vance, the valley becomes deeper and deeper. The shade of the
precipices on both sides falls blacker and blacker. The clouds
gather overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the
rushing of many feet to and fro, are heard through the darkness.
The way, hardly discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of
the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke,
and its hideous shapes, to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes
on amidst the snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of
those who have perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the
end of the long dark valley he passes the dens in which the old
giants dwelt, amidst the bones of those whom they had slain.
Then the road passes straight on through a waste moor, till at
length the towers of a distant city appear before the traveller; and
soon he is in the midst of the innumerable multitudes of Vanity
Fair. There are the jugglers and the apes, the shops and the
puppet shows. There are Italian Row, and French Row, and
Spanish Row, and Britain Row, with their crowds of buyers,
sellers, and loungers, jabbering all the languages of the earth.
Thence we go on by the little hill of the silver mine, and
through the meadow of lilies, along the bank of that pleasant
river which is bordered on both sides by fruit-trees. On the left
branches off the path leading to the horrible castle, the court-
yard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims ; and right
T. B. MACAULAY.] BUNYAN. 423
onward are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Moun-
tains.
From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the fogs
and briers of the Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed
of soft cushions spread under a green arbour. And beyond is
the land of Beulah, where the flowers, the grapes, and the songs
of birds never cease, and where the sun shines night and day.
Thence are plainly seen the golden pavements and streets of
pearl, on the other side of that black and cold river over which
there is no bridge.
. All the stages of the journey, all the forms which cross or over-
take the pilgrims, giants, and hobgoblins, ill-favoured ones and
shining ones, the tall, comely, swarthy Madam Bubble, with her
great purse by her side, and her fingers playing with the money,
the black man in the bright vesture, Mr Worldly Wiseman and my
Lord Hategood, Mr Talkative, and Mrs Timorous, all are actu-
ally existing beings to us. We follow the travellers through their
allegorical progress with interest not inferior to that with which
we follow Elizabeth from Siberia to Moscow, or Jeannie Deans
from Edinburgh to London. Bunyan is almost the only writer
who ever gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In the
works of many celebrated authors, men are mere personifications.
We have not a jealous man, but jealousy; not a traitor, but per-
fidy; not a patriot, but patriotism. The mind of Bunyan, on the
contrary, was so imaginative that personifications, when he dealt
with them, became men. A dialogue between two qualities, in his
dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue between two
human beings in most plays.
The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable
as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command
over the English language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of
the common people. There is not an expression, if we except a
few technical terms of theology, which would puzzle the rudest
peasant. We have observed several pages which do not contain
a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer has said
424 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DICKENS.
more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos,
for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose
of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the
dialect of plain working men, was perfectly sufficient. There is
no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the
fame of the unpolluted English language, no book which shows so
well how rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and how
little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed.
70.— Cfr*
DICKENS.
[IN a work which professes to be a selection from " The Best Authors," the
omission of the name of Charles Dickens might be compared with that Roman
procession, in which the bust of the most popular citizen was not found
amongst a long array of the busts of other men, and that citizen was therefore
held to be the most distinguished. We cannot risk this mode of explanation ;
and he, therefore, who came to fill up the void which Scott had left, must sup-
ply us with one extract, even though every reader should bo as familiarly
acquainted with it as with a scene from Shakespeare or the Waverley Novels.
Those, and they must be few indeed, to whom this writer is not fully known,
will form no adequate judgment of him from any extract. One passage may
exhibit his almost unequalled power of delineating the external aspects of so-
ciety with perfect fidelity, and yet dealing with the vulgarest things without a
particle of vulgarity. Another may show his success in seizing upon the
minutest details of the manners of the uneducated, going, as it would seem,
into the wildest regions of Farce, and yet preserving a truth which retains such
scenes within the province of the highest Comedy. A third may display his
command over the pathetic, — not derived from an unreal sentimentality, but
from an insight into the depths of the feelings that are common to all human
beings, because they are founded upon that principle of love to some other
being which even the hardest cherish, and which the great mass of mankind
turn to as naturally as the plant seeks the light. Dickens, however, as well as
every other writer of enduring fiction, must be judged by his power of produc-
ing a complete work of Art, in which all the parts have a mutual relation.
Tested by this severe principle, some of his creations may be held imperfect, —
written for periodical issue and not published entire, — hurried occasionally, and
wanting in proportion. But from the " Pickwick" of 1837 to " Our Mutual
Friend " of 1865, there has been no failing of interest and effect ; his characters
are " familiar in our mouths as household words." In the "Copperfield" it is
not difficult to trace the maturing power of experience, which points to the
highest aims, and rejects those adventitious sources of attraction which are so
DICKENS.] THE DUEL. 42$
tempting in the early career of genius. The passage which we subjoin is from
" Nicholas Nickleby."]
The little race-course at Hampton was in the full tide and
height of its gaiety, the day as dazzling as day could be, the sun
high in the cloudless sky, and shining in its fullest splendour.
Every gaudy colour that fluttered in the air from carriage seat and
garish tent top, shone out in its gaudiest hues. Old dingy flags
grew new again, faded gilding was re-burnished, stained rotten
canvas looked a snowy white ; the very beggars' rags were fresh-
ened up, and sentiment quite forgot its charity in its fervent ad-
miration of poverty so picturesque.
It was one of those scenes of life and animation, caught in its
very brightest and freshest moments, which can scarcely fail to
please ; for if the eye be tired of show and glare, or the ear be
weary with a ceaseless round of noise, the one may repose, turn
almost where it will, on eager, happy, and expectant faces, and
the other deaden all consciousness of more annoying sounds in
those of mirth and exhilaration. Even the sun-burnt faces of
gipsy children, half naked though they be, suggest a drop of com-
fort. It is a pleasant thing to see that the sun has been there, to
know that the air and light are on them every day, to feel that
they are children and lead children's lives ; that if their pillows be
damp, it is with the dews of heaven, and not with tears ; that the
limbs of their girls are free, and that they are not crippled by dis-
tortions, imposing an unnatural and horrible penance upon their
sex ; that their lives are spent from day to day at least among the
waving trees, and not in the midst of dreadful engines that make
young children old before they know what childhood is, and give
them the exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like age, the
privilege to die. God send that old nursery tales were true, and
that gipsies stole such children by the score !
The great race of the day had just been run ; and the close lines
of the people on either side of the course suddenly breaking up
and pouring into it, imparted a new liveliness to the scene, which
was again all busy movement. Some hurried eagerly to catch a
glimpse of the winning horse, others darted to and fro searching
426 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DICKENS.
no less eagerly for the carriages they had left in quest of better
stations. Here a little knot gathered round a pea and thimble
table to watch the plucking of some unhappy greenhorn, and
there another proprietor with his confederates in various disguises
— one man in spectacles, another with an eye-glass and a stylish
hat, a third dressed as a farmer well to do in the world, with his
top coat over his arm and his flash notes in a large leathern
pocket-book, and all with heavy-handled whips to represent some
innocent country fellows who had trotted there on horseback —
sought, by loud and noisy talk and pretended play, to entrap some
unwary customer, while the gentlemen confederates (of more vil-
lainous aspect still, in clean linen and good clothes) betrayed
their close interest in the concern by the anxious furtive glances
they cast on all new-comers. These would be hanging on the
outskirts of a wide circle of people assembled round some
itinerant juggler, opposed in his turn by a noisy band of music,
or the classic game of "Ring the Bull," whilst ventriloquists hold-
ing dialogues with wooden dolls, and fortune-telling women
smothering the cries of real babies, divided with them, and many
more, the general attention of the company. Drinking-tents were
full, glasses began to clink in carriages, hampers to be unpacked,
tempting provisions to be set forth, knives and forks to rattle,
champagne-corks to fly, eyes to brighten that were not dull before,
and pickpockets to count their gains during the last heat. The
attention so recently strained on one object of interest was now
divided among a hundred; and look where you would, was
a motley assemblage of feasting, laughing, talking, begging,
gambling, and mummery.
Of the gambling-booths there was a plentiful show, flourishing
in all the splendour of carpeted ground, striped hangings, crimson
cloth, pinnacled roofs, geranium pots, and livery servants. There
were the Stranger's club-house, the Athenaeum club-house, the
Harrpton club-house, the St James's club-house, and half a mile
of club-houses to play in; and there was rouge-et-noir, French
hazard, and La Merville, to play at. It is into one of these
booths that our story takes its way.
Fitted up with three tables for the purpose of play, and crowded
DICKENS.] THE DUEL. 427
with players and lookers on, it was — although the largest place
of the kind upon the course — intensely hot, notwithstanding that
a portion of the canvas roof was rolled back to admit more air,
and there were two doors for a free passage in and out. Except-
ing one or two men who — each with a long roll of half-crowns,
chequered with a few stray sovereigns, in his left hand — staked
their money at every roll of the ball with a business-like sedate-
ness which showed that they were used to it, and had been play-
ing all day, and most probably all the day before, there was no
very distinctive character about the players, who were chiefly
young men apparently attracted by curiosity, or staking small
sums as part of the amusement of the day, with no very great
interest in winning or losing. There were two persons present,
however, who, as peculiarly good specimens of a class, deserve a
passing notice.
Of these, one was a man of six or eight and fifty, who sat on a
chair near one of the entrances of the booth, with his hands folded
on the top of his stick, and his chin appearing above them. He
was a tall, fat, long-bodied man, buttoned up to the throat in a
light green coat, which made his body look still longer than it
was, and wore besides drab breeches and gaiters, a white necker-
chief, and a broad brimmed white hat. Amid all the buzzing
noise of the games and the perpetual passing in and out of people,
he seemed perfectly calm and abstracted, without the smallest
particle of excitement in his composition. He exhibited no indi-
cation of weariness, nor, to a casual observer, of interest either.
There he sat, quite still and collected. Sometimes, but very
rarely, he nodded to some passing face, or beckoned to a waiter
to obey a call from one of the tables. The next instant he sub-
sided into his old state. He might have been some profoundly
deaf old gentleman, who had come in to take a rest, or he might
have been patiently waiting for a friend without the least con-
sciousness of anybody's presence, or fixed in a trance, or under
the influence of opium. People turned round and looked at him;
he made no gesture, caught nobody's eye, — let them pass away,
and others come on and be succeeded by others, and took no
notice. When he did move, it seemed wonderful how he could
428 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS, DICKENS.
have seen anything to occasion it. And so, in truth, it was. But
there was not a face passed in and out this man failed to see,
not a gesture at any one of the three tables that was lost upon
him, not a word spoken by the bankers but reached his ear, not
a winner or loser he could not have marked j and he was the pro-
prietor of the place.
The other presided over the rouge-et-noir table. He was pro-
bably some ten years younger, and was a plump, paunchy, sturdy-
looking fellow; with his under lip a little pursed, from a habit of
counting money inwardly, as he paid it, but with no decidedly
bad expression in his face, which was rather an honest and jolly
one than otherwise. He wore no coat, the weather being hot,
and stood behind the table with a huge mound of crowns and
half-crowns before him, and a cash-box for notes. This game
was constantly playing. Perhaps twenty people would be staking
at the same time. This man had to roll the ball, to watch the
stakes as they were laid down, to gather them off the colour which
lost, to pay those who won, to do it all with the utmost despatch,
to roll the ball again, and to keep this game perfectly alive. He
did it all with a rapidity absolutely marvellous; never hesitating,
never making a mistake, never stopping and never ceasing to re-
peat such unconnected phrases as the following, which, partly
from habit, and partly to have something appropriate and busi-
ness-like to say, he constantly poured out with the same monoton-
ous emphasis, and in nearly the same order, all day long : —
" Rooge-a-nore from Paris, gentlemen, make your game and
back your own opinions — any time while the ball rolls — rooge-a-
nore from Paris, gentlemen, it's a French game, gentlemen, I
brought it over myself, I did indeed ! — rooge-a-nore from Paris —
black wins — black — stop a minute, sir, and I '11 pay you directly
— two there, half a pound there, — three there, — and one there —
gentlemen, the ball 's a rolling — any time, sir, while the ball rolls
— the beauty of this game is, that you can double your stakes or
put down your money, gentlemen, any time while the ball rolls —
black again — black wins — I never saw such a thing — I never did
in all my life, upon my word I never did : if any gentleman had
been backing the black in the last five minutes he must have won
DICKENS.] THE DUEL. 429
five-and-forty pound in four rolls of the ball, he must indeed.
Gentlemen, we Ve port, sherry, cigars, and most excellent cham-
pagne. Here, waiter, bring a bottle of champagne, and let's
have a dozen or fifteen cigars here — and let 's be comfortable,
gentlemen — and bring some clean glasses, any time while the
ball rolls. I lost one hundred and thirty-seven pound yesterday,
gentlemen, at one roll of the ball : I did indeed ! how do you do,
sir?" (recognising some knowing gentleman without any halt or
change of voice, and giving a wink so slight that it seems an
accident,) "will you take a glass of sherry, sir? — here, waiter,
bring a clean glass, and hand the sherry to this gentleman — and
hand it round, will you, waiter — this is the rooge-a-nore from
Paris, gentlemen — any time while the ball rolls — gentlemen, make
your game, and back your own opinions — it 's the rooge-a-nore
from Paris, quite a new game. I brought it over myself, I did
indeed — gentlemen, the ball 's a rolling ! "
This officer was busily plying his vocation when half-a-dozen
persons sauntered through the booth, to whom — but without stop-
ping either in his speech or work — he bowed respectfully, at the
same time directing by a look the attention of a man beside him
to the tallest figure in the group, in recognition of whom the pro
prietor pulled off his hat. This was Sir Mulberry Hawk, with
whom were his friend and pupil, and a small train of gentlemanly
dressed men, of characters more doubtful than obscure.
They dined together sumptuously. The wine flowed freely, as,
indeed, it had done all day. Sir Mulberry drank to recompense
himself for his recent abstinence, the young lord, to drown his
indignation, and the remainder of the party, because the wine
was of the best, and they had nothing to pay. It was nearly
midnight when they rushed out, wild, burning with wine, their blood
boiling, and their brains on fire, to the gaming table.
Here they encountered another party, and like themselves.
The excitement of play, hot rooms, and glaring lights, was not
calculated to aliay the fever of the time. In that giddy whirl of
noise and confusion the men were delirious. Who thought of
money, ruin, or the morrow, in the savage intoxication of the
430 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DICKENS.
moment ? More wine was called for, glass after glass was drained,
their parched and scalding mouths were cracked with thirst.
Down poured the wine like oil on blazing fire. And still the riot
went on — the debauchery gained its height, glasses were dashed
upon the floor by hands that could not carry them to lips, oaths
were shouted out by lips which could hardly form the words to
vent them in; drunken losers cursed and roared; some mounted
on the tables, waving bottles above their heads and bidding de-
fiance to the rest; some danced, some sang, some tore the cards
and raved. Tumult and frenzy reigned supreme; when a noise
arose that drowned all others, and two men, seizing each other by
the throat, struggled into the middle of the room.
A dozen voices, until now unheard, called aloud to part
them. Those who had kept themselves cool to win, and who
earned their living in such scenes, threw themselves upon the
combatants, and forcing them asunder, dragged them some space
apart.
"Let me go!" cried Sir Mulberry, in a thick hoarse voice,
"he struck me ! Do you hear? I say, he struck me. Have I
a friend here ? Who is this 1 Westwood. Do you hear me say
he struck me V
11 1 hear, I hear," replied one of those who held him. " Come
away for to-night."
" I will not, by G — ," he replied, fiercely. " A dozen men
about us saw the blow."
" To-morrow will be ample time," said the friend.
" It will not be ample time ! " cried Sir Mulberry, gnashing his
teeth. " To-night — at once — here !" His passion was so great
that he could not articulate, but stood clenching his fist, tearing
his hair, and stamping upon the ground.
" What is this, my lord ? said one of those who surrounded
him. " Have blows passed?"
" One blow has," was the panting reply. " I struck him — I
proclaim it to all here. I struck him, and he well knows why. I
say with him, let the quarrel be adjusted now. Captain Adams,"
said the young lord, looking hurriedly about him, and addressing
one of those who had interposed, " Let me speak with you, I beg.;'
DICKENS.] THE DUEL. 431
The person addressed stepped forward, and taking the young
man's arm, they retired together, followed shortly afterwards by
Sir Mulberry and his friend.
It was a profligate haunt of the worst repute, and not a place in
which such an affair was likely to awaken any sympathy for either
party, or to call forth any further remonstrance or interposition.
Elsewhere its further progress would have been instantly prevented,
and time allowed for sober and cool reflection ; but not there.
Disturbed in their orgies, the party broke up ; some reeled away
with looks of tipsy gravity, others withdrew noisily discussing
what had just occurred; the gentlemen of 'honour, who lived upon
their winnings, remarked to each other as they went out that
Hawk was a good shot : and those who had been most noisy fell
fast asleep upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.
Meanwhile the two seconds, as they may be called now, after
a long conference, each with his principal, met together in another
room. Both utterly heartless, both men upon town, both then
roughly initiated in its worst vices, both deeply in debt, both
fallen from some higher estate, both addicted to every depravity
for which society can find some genteel name, and plead its most
depraving conventionalities as an excuse, they were naturally
gentlemen of the most unblemished honour themselves, and of
great nicety concerning the honour of other people.
These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful just now, for the
affair was pretty certain to make some noise, and could scarcely
fail to enhance their reputations considerably.
" This is an awkward affair, Adams," said Mr Westwood, draw-
ing himself up.
" Very," returned the captain ; " a blow has been struck, and
there is but one course, of course."
" No apology, I suppose T' said Mr Westwood.
" Not a syllable, sir, from my man, if we talk till doomsday,"
returned the captain. " The original cause of the dispute, I un-
derstand, was some girl or other, to whom your principal applied
some terms, which Lord Frederick, defending the girl, repelled.
But this led to a long recrimination upon a great many sore sub-
jects, charges, and countercharges. Sir Mulberry was sarcastic;
432 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DICKENS.
Lord Frederick was excited, and struck him in the heat of provo-
cation, and under circumstances of great aggravation. That blow,
unless there is a full retraction on the part of Sir Mulberry, Lord
Frederick is ready to justify."
" There is no more to be said," returned the other, " but to
settle the hour and the place of meeting. It's a responsibility;
but there is a strong feeling to have it over : do you object to say
at sunrise?"
"Sharp work," replied the captain, referring to his watch;
" however, as this seems to have been a long time brooding, and
negotiation is only a waste of words — no."
"Something may possibly be said out of doors, after what
passed in the other room, which renders it desirable that we
should be off without delay, and quite clear of town," said Mr
Westwood. " What do you say to one of the meadows opposite
Twickenham, by the river-side V
The captain saw no objection.
" Shall we join corcpany in the avenue of trees which leads
from Petersham to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when
we arrive there?" said Mr Westwood.
To this the captain also assented. After a few other prelimi-
naries, equally brief, and having settled the road each party should
take to avoid suspicion, they separated.
" We shall just have comfortable time, my lord," said the cap-
tain, when he had communicated the arrangements, " to call at
my rooms for a case of pistols, and then jog coolly down. If you
will allow me to dismiss your servant, we'll take my cab, for
yours, perhaps, might be recognised."
What a contrast, when they reached the street, to the scene
they had just left! It was already daybreak. For the flaring
yellow light within, was substituted the clear, bright, glorious
morning; for a hot close atmosphere, tainted with the smell of
expiring lamps, and reeking with the steams of riot and dissipa-
tion, the free, fresh, wholesome air. But to the fevered head on
which that cool air blew, it seemed to come laden with remorse
for time misspent, and countless opportunities neglected. With
throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts
DICKENS.] THE DUEL. 433
hurried and disordered, he felt as though the light were a re-
proach, and shrunk involuntarily from the day, as if he were some
foul and hideous thing.
" Shivering ?" said the captain. " You are cold."
" Rather."
" It does strike cold, coming out of those hot rooms. Wrap
that cloak about you. So, so ; now we 're off."
They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at the
captain's lodgings, cleared the town, and emerged upon the open
road, without hindrance or molestation.
Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything looked very beautiful;
the young man scarcely seemed to have noticed them before,
though he had passed the same objects a thousand times. There
was a peace and serenity upon them all strangely at variance with
the bewilderment and confusion of his own half-sobered thoughts,
and yet impressive and welcome. He had no fear upon his
mind; but as he looked about him he had less anger; and though
all old delusions, relative to his worthless late companion, were
now cleared away, he rather wished he had never known him,
than thought of its having come to this.
The past night, the day before, and many other days and
nights besides, all mingled themselves up in one unintelligible and
senseless whirl; he could not separate the transactions of one
time from those of another. Last night seemed a week ago, and
months ago were as last night. Now the noise of the wheels re-
solved itself into some wild tune, in which he could recognise
scraps of airs he knew, and now there was nothing in his ears but
a stunning and bewildering sound like rushing water. But his
companion rallied him on being so silent, and they talked and
laughed boisterously. When they stopped he was a little surprised
to find himself in the act of smoking, but on reflection he remem-
bered when and where he had taken the cigar.
Theystopped at the avenue gateand alighted, leaving the carriage
to the care of the servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as
well accustomed to such proceedings as his master. Sir Mulberry
and his friend were already there, and all four walked in profound
silence up the aisle of stately elm-trees, which, meeting far above
VOL. i. 2 E
434 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DICKENS.
their heads, formed a long green perspective of Gothic arches, ter-
minating like some old ruin in the open sky.
After a pause, and a brief conference between the seconds,
they at length turned to the right, and taking a track across a
little meadow, passed Ham House, and came into some fields
beyond. In one of these they stopped. The ground was mea-
sured, some usual forms gone through, the two principals were
placed front to front at the distance agreed upon, and Sir Mul-
berry turned his face towards his young adversary for the first
time. He was very pale — his eyes were blood-shot, his dress
disordered, and his hair dishevelled — all, most probably, the con-
sequences of the previous day and night. For the face, it ex-
pressed nothing but violent and evil passions. He shaded his
eyes with his hand, gazed at his opponent steadfastly for a few
moments, and then, taking the weapon which was tendered to
him, bent his eyes upon that, and looked up no more until the
word was given, when he instantly fired.
The two shots were fired as nearly as possible at the same in-
stant. At that instant the young lord turned his head sharply
round, fixed upon his adversary a ghastly stare, and, without a
groan or stagger, fell down dead.
" He 's gone," cried Westwood, who, with the other second, had
run up to the body, and fallen on one knee beside it.
" His blood on his own head," said Sir Mulberry. " He
brought this upon himself, and forced it upon me/'
" Captain Adams," cried Westwood, hastily, " I call you to
witness that this was fairly done. Hawk, we have not a moment
to lose. We must leave this place immediately, push for Brighton,
and cross to France with all speed. This has been a bad busi-
ness, and may be worse if we delay a moment. Adams, consult
your own safety, and don't remain here; the living before the
dead — good-bye. "
With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm. 'and hur-
ried him away. Captain Adams, only pausing to convince him-
self beyond all question of the fatal result, sped off in the same
direction, to concert measures with his servant for removing the
body, and securing his own safety likewise.
LATIMER.I THE SERMON OF THE PLOUGH. 435
So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the hand which he had
loaded with gifts and clasped a thousand times ; by the act of
him but for whom, and others like him, he might have lived a
happy man, and died with children's faces round his bed.
The sun came proudly up in all his majesty, the noble river
ran its winding course, the leaves quivered and rustled in the air,
the birds poured their cheerful songs from every tree, the short-
lived butterfly fluttered its little wings ; all the light and life of
day came on, and, amidst it all, and pressing down the grass,
whose every blade bore twenty tiny lives, lay the dead man, with
his stark and rigid face turned upwards to the sky.
71. — gtfre Smrtcm: 0f
LATIMER.
[HUGH LATIMER, one of the great martyrs of the Reformation, was born
about 1472. In one of his sermons, he says, " My father was a yeoman, and
had no lands of his own, only he had a farm of three or four pound by the
year at the uttermost .... He kept me to school, or else I had not
been able to have preached before the king's majesty now." At the time
when he thus preached, he was Bishop of Worcester. Of the boldness of his
preaching during the reign of Edward VI., his Sermons furnish ample evi-
dence ; and from one of the most remarkable we select the following striking
passages. Upon the accession of Queen Mary, the resolute old man became
one of the victims of persecution ; and he was led to the stake at Oxford, with
Ridley as his companion in death, on the i6th of October I555-]
" All things which are written, are written for our erudition and
knowledge. All things that are written in God's book, in the
Bible book, in the book of the Holy Scripture, are written to be
our doctrine." I told you in my first sermon, honourable audience,
that I proposed to declare unto you two things. The one, what
seed should be sown in God's field, in God's plough-land ; and
the other, who should be the sowers.
That is to say, what doctrine is to be taught in Christ's Church
and congregation, and what men should be the teachers and
preachers of it. The first part I have told you in the three ser-
43 6 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BES T A UTHORS. [LATIMER.
mons past, in which I have essayed to set forth my plough, to
prove what I could do. And now I shall tell you who be the
ploughers; for God's word is a seed to be sown in God's field —
that is, the faithful congregation — and the preacher is the sower.
And it is in the gospel, " He that soweth, the husbandman, the
ploughman, went forth to sow his seed." So that a preacher is
resembled to a ploughman, as it is in another place : — " No man
that putteth his hand to the plough, and looketh back, is apt for
the kingdom of God/' (Luke ix.) That is to say, let no preacher
be negligent in doing his office.
For preaching of the gospel is one of God's plough-works, and
the preacher is one of God's ploughmen. Ye may not be offended
with my similitude, in that I compare preaching to the labour and
work of ploughing, and the preacher to a ploughman. Ye may
not be offended with this my similitude, for I have been slandered
of some persons for such things. But as preachers must be wary
and circumspect, that they give not any just occasion to be slant
dered and ill-spoken of by the hearers, so must not the auditors
be offended without cause. For heaven is in the gospel likened
to a mustard-seed : it is compared also to a piece of leaven ; and
as Christ saith, that at the last day He will come like a thief; and
what dishonour is this to God? Or what derogation is this to
heaven? Ye may not, then, I say, be offended with my similitude,
for because I liken preaching to a ploughman's labour, and a pre-
late to a ploughman. But now you will ask me whom I call a
prelate] A prelate is that man, whatever he be, that hath a flock
to be taught of him; whosoever hath any spiritual charge in the
faithful congregation, and whosoever he be that hath cure of
souls. And well may the preacher and the ploughman be likened
together: First, for their labour of all seasons of the year; for
there is no time of the year in which the ploughman hath not some
special work to do. As in my country, in Leicestershire, the
ploughman hath a time to set forth, and to assay his plough, and
other times for other necessary works to be done. And then they
also may be likened together for the diversity of works and va-
riety of offices that they have to do. For as the ploughman first
LATIMER.] THE SERMON OF THE PLOUGH. 437
setteth forth his plough, and then tilleth his land, and breaketh it
in furrows, and sometime ridgeth it up again; and at another time
narroweth it and clotteth it, and sometime dungeth it and hedgeth
it, diggeth it and weedeth it, purgeth it and maketh it clean ; so
the prelate, the preacher, hath many diverse offices to do. He
hath first a busy work to bring his parishioners to a right faith, as
Paul calleth it; and not a swerving faith, but to a faith that em-
braceth Christ, and trusteth to His merits; a lively faith, a justify-
ing faith; a faith that maketh a man righteous without respect of
works ; as ye have it very well declared and set forth in the homily.
He hath then a busy work, I say, to bring his flock to a right faith,
and then to confirm them in the same faith. Now casting them
down with the law, and with threatenings of God for sin ; now
ridging them up again with the gospel, and with the promises of
God's favour. Now weeding them, by telling them their faults,
and making them forsake sin ; now clotting them, by breaking
their stony hearts, and by making them supple-hearted, and mak-
ing them to have hearts of flesh — that is, soft hearts, and apt for
doctrine to enter in. Now teaching to know God rightly, and to
know their duty to God and their neighbours. Now exhorting
them when they know their duty, that they do it, and be diligent
in it ; so that they have a continual work to do. Great is their
business, and, therefore, great should be their hire. They have
great labours, and, therefore, they ought to have good livings, that
they may commodiously feed their flock for the preaching of the
word of God unto the people is called meat : Scripture calleth it
meat : not strawberries,* that come but once a year, and tarry not
long, but are soon gone; but it is meat, it is no dainties. The
people must have meat that must be familiar and continual, and
daily given unto them to feed upon. Many make a strawberry of
it, ministering it but once a year; but such do not the office of
good prelates. For Christ saith, " Who think you is a wise and
faithful servant 1 He that giveth meat in due time." So that he
must at all times convenient preach diligently: therefore saith He,
* This expression, which Latimer made use of to designate the non-residents
of his day, who only visited their cures once a year, became proverbial.
438 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LATIMBK.
" Who trow ye is a faithful servant?" He speaketh it as though
it were a rare thing to find such a one, and as though He should
say, there be but few of them to find in the world. And how few
of them there be throughout this world that give meat to their
flock as they should do, the visitors can best tell. Too few, too
few, the more is the pity, and never so few as now.
By this, then, it appeareth that a prelate, or any that hath
cure of souls, must diligently and substantially work and labour.
Therefore saith Paul to Timothy, " He that desireth to have the
office of a bishop, or a prelate, that man desireth a good work."
Then if it be a good work, it is work ; ye can make but a work of
it. It is God's work, God's plough, and that plough God would
have still going. Such then as loiter and live idly, are not good
prelates or ministers. And of such as do not preach and teach,
and do their duties, God saith by His prophet Jeremy, " Cursed
be the man that doeth the work of God fraudulently, guilefully, or
deceitfully;" some books have it negligenter, negligently, or slackly.
How many such prelates, how many such bishops, Lord, for Thy
mercy, are there now in England? And what shall we in this
case do? Shall we company with them? O Lord, for Thy mercy!
shall we not company with them ? O Lord, whither shall we flee
from them? But " cursed be he that doth the work of God negli-
gently or guilefully." A sore word for them that are negligent in
discharging their office, or have done it fraudulently; for that is
the thing that maketh the people ill
But now for the fault of unpreaching prelates, methink I could
guess what might be said for excusing of them. They are so
troubled with lordly living, they be so placed in palaces, couched
in courts, ruffling in their rents, dancing in their dominions, bur-
dened with ambassages, pampering of their paunches, like a monk
that maketh his jubilee : munching in their mangers, and moiling
in their gay manors and mansions, and so troubled with loitering
in their lordships, that they cannot attend it. They are otherwise
occupied, some in the king's matters, some are ambassadors, some
of the privy council, some to furnish the court, some are lords of the
parliament, some are presidents, and some comptrollers of mints.
LATIMER.] THE SERMON OF THE PLOUGH. 439
Well, well, is this their duty? Is this their office 1 Is this their
calling? Should we have ministers of the Church to be comptrollers
of the mints'? Is this a meet office for a priest that hath cure of
souls 1 Is this his charge 1 I would here ask one question : I would
fain know who controlleth the devil at home in his parish, while
he controlleth the mint 1 If the apostles might not leave the office
of preaching to the deacons, shall one leave it for minting ? I can-
not tell you ; but the saying is, that since priests have been minters,
money hath been worse than it was before. And they say that the
evilness of money hath made all things dearer, and in this behalf I
must speak to England. " Hear, my country, England," as Paul
saith in his first epistle to the Corinthians, the sixth chapter; for
Paul was no sitting bishop, but a walking and preaching bishop.
But when he went from them, he left there behind him the plough
going still ; for he wrote unto them, and rebuked them for going
to law, and pleading their causes before heathen judges. " Is there,"
saith he, " utterly among you no wise man, to be an arbitrator in
matters of judgment ? What, not one of all that can judge between
brother and brother ; but one brother goeth to law with another,
and that under heathen judges? Appoint them judges that are most
abject and vile in the congregation/' Which he speaketh in re-
buking them; "for," saith he, "I speak it to your shame." So,
England, I speak it to thy shame. Is there never a nobleman to
be a lord president, but it must be a prelate ? Is there never a
wise man in the realm to be a comptroller of the mint? I speak
it to your shame. If there be never a wise man, make a water-
bearer, a tinker, a cobbler, a slave, a page, comptroller of the
mint; make a mean gentleman, a groom, a yeoman, or a poor
beggar, lord president !
Thus I speak, not that I would have it so ; but to your shame,
if there be never a gentleman meet nor able to be lord president.
For why are not the noblemen and young gentlemen of England
so brought up in knowledge of God, and in learning, that they may
be able to execute offices in the commonweal ? The king hath a
great many of wards, and I trow there is a court of wards ; why
is there not a school for the wards, as well as there is a court for
44° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LATIMER.
their lands ? . Why are they not set in schools where they may
learn ? Or why are they not sent to the universities, that they may
be able to serve the king when they come to age 1 If the wards
and young gentlemen were well brought up in learning, and in the
knowledge of God, they would not when they come to age, so
much give themselves to other vanities. And if the nobility be
well trained in godly learning, the people would follow the same
train. For, truly, such as the noblemen be, such will the people
be. And now, the only cause why noblemen be not made lord
presidents is, because they have not been brought up in learning.
And now I would ask a strange question : Who is the most
diligent bishop and prelate in all England that passeth all the
rest in doing his office 1 I can tell, for I know him who it is; I know
him well. But now I think I see you listening and hearkening
that I should name him. There is one that passeth all the others,
and is the most diligent prelate and preacher in all England. And
will ye know who it is ? I will tell you : it is the devil. He is the
most diligent preacher of all others ;he is never out of his diocese;
he is never from his cure ; ye shall never find him unoccupied ;
he is ever in his parish ; he keepeth residence at all times ; ye shall
never find him out of the way ; call for him when you will, he is
ever at home ; the diligentest preacher in all the realm : he is ever
at his plough ; no lording nor loitering can hinder him, he is ever
applying his business ; ye shall never find him idle, I warrant you.
And his office is to hinder religion, to maintain superstition, to set
up idolatry, to teach all kind of popery. He is ready as can be
wished for to set forth his plough, to devise as many ways as can
be to deface and obscure God's glory. Where the devil is resi-
dent, and hath his plough going, there away with books, and up
with candles; away with Bibles, and up with beads ; away with the
light of the gospel, and up with the light of candles, yea, at noon-
day. Where the devil is resident, that he may prevail, up with
all superstition and idolatry ; censing, painting of images, candles,
palms, ashes, holy water, and new service of men's inventing : as
Jiough man could invent a better way to honour God with than
SMOLLETT.]
AUTHORS OF A CENTURY AGO.
441
God himelf hath appointed. Down with Christ's cross, up with
purgatory pick-purse, up with him, the popish purgatory I mean.
Away with clothing the naked, the poor and impotent, up with
decking of images, and gay garnishing of stocks and stones; up
with man's traditions and his laws, down with God's traditions and
His most holy Word. Down with the old honour due to God, and
up with the new god's honour. Let all things be done in Latin :
there must be nothing but Latin, not so much as — Memento,
homo, quod cinis es, et in cinerem reverteris : "Remember, man,
that thou art ashes, and unto ashes shalt thou return :" which be the
words that the minister speaketh unto the ignorant people, when
he giveth them ashes upon Ash Wednesday, but it must be spoken
in Latin. God's Word may in no wise be translated into English.
Oh that our prelates would be as diligent to sow the corn of
good doctrine as Satan is to sow cockle and darnel !
72.—
of a: toterir &g0.
SMOLLETT
NNER OF AUTHORS AT SMOLLETT*S HOUSB
[TOBIAS SMOLLETT, whose novels will continue to be read in spite of their
defects as works of art and their habitual coarseness, was the descendant of an
442 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
old Scottish family, and was born at Cardross, in 1721. He was apprenticed
to a surgeon at Glasgow, and served as a surgeon's mate in a ship of the line.
Many of his early adventures are supposed to be told in his " Roderick Ran-
dom." He came to London in 1 746, and entered upon a career of authorship
which he pursued till his death in 1771. Inferior to Fielding in knowledge of
character, he is equal to him in describing scenes of real life; but the poetical
power, without which no work of fiction can be perfect, is wholly wanting in his
writings. He had amongst his literary brethren a turmoil of controversy ; and
his position as the editor of the " Critical Review," gave him the opportunity
which some anonymous critics know how to exercise, of gratifying his vanity
and love of power with slight regard to truth and justice. He is, however,
represented as a generous man, and exhibited much kindness to the needy
writers by whom he was surrounded. The state of letters at that period is
admirably described in a paper on Johnson, by Macaulay, which we have
quoted. Smollett has painted a literary scene at his own house, in his " Hum-
phrey Clinker," which is, perhaps, not a greatly exaggerated picture of the
class of men who lived by the pen, when " the age of patronage had passed
away, and the age of general curiosity and intelligence had not arrived."]
In my last I mentioned my having spent an evening with a
society of authors, who seemed to be jealous and afraid of one
another. My uncle was not at all surprised to hear me say I was
disappointed in their conversation. " A man may be very enter-
taining and instructive upon paper," said he, " and exceedingly
dull in common discourse. I have observed that those who shine
most in private company are but secondary stars in the constella-
tion of genius. A small stock of ideas is more easily managed
and sooner displayed, than a great quantity crowded together.
There is very seldom anything extraordinary in the appearance
and address of a good writer; whereas a dull author generally
distinguishes himself by some oddity or extravagance. For this
reason I fancy that an assembly of grubs must be very diverting."
My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend
Dick Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which
was Sunday last. He carried me to dine with S , whom you
and I have long known by his writings. He lives in the skirts of
the town, and every Sunday his house is open to all unfortunate
brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef, pudding, and
potatoes, pork, punch, and Calvert's entire butt-beer. He has
SMOLLETT.] AUTHORS OF A CENTURY AGO. 443
fixed upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his hospi-
tality, because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any other,
for reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly received, in a
plain yet decent habitation, which opened backwards into a very
pleasant garden, kept in excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none
of the outward signs of authorship, either in. the house or the
landlord, who is one of those few writers of the age that stand
upon their own foundation, without patronage, and above de-
pendence. If there was nothing characteristic in the entertainer,
the company made ample amends for his want of singularity.
At two in the afternoon I found myself one of ten messmates
seated at table ; and I question if the whole kingdom could pro-
duce such another assemblage of originals. Among their peculi-
arities I do not mention those of dress, which may be purely
accidental. What struck me were oddities originally produced
by affectation, and afterwards confirmed by habit. One of them
wore spectacles at dinner, and another his hat flapped, though, as
Ivy told me, the first was noted for having a seaman's eye when a
bailiff was in the wind, and the other was never known to labour
under any weakness or defect of vision, except about five years
ago, when he was complimented with a couple of black eyes by a
player with whom he had quarrelled in his drink. A third wore a
laced stocking, and made use ot crutches, because once in his
life he had been laid up with a broken leg, though no man could
leap over a stick with more agility. A fourth had contracted such
an antipathy to the country, that he insisted upon sitting with his
back towards the window that looked into the garden ; and when
a dish of cauliflower was set upon the table he snuffed up volatile
salts to keep him from fainting : yet this delicate person was the
son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and had many years run
wild among asses on a common. A fifth affected distraction;
when spoken to, he always answered from the purpose; some-
times he suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath —
sometimes he burst out a laughing — then he folded his arms and
sighed — and then he hissed like fifty serpents.
At first I really thought he was mad, and, as he sat near me,
444 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
began to be under some apprehensions for my own safety, when
our landlord, perceiving me alarmed, assured me aloud that I had
nothing to fear. — " The gentleman," said he, " is trying to act a
part for which he is by no means qualified — if he had all the
inclination in the world, it is not in his power to be mad. His
spirits are too flat to be kindled into frenzy." — "Tis no bad
p-p-puff, how-ow-ever," observed a person in a tarnished laced
coat; " aff-affected m-madness w-will p-pass for w-wit, w-with
nine-nine-teen out of t-twenty." — "And affected stuttering for
humour," replied our landlord; "though, God knows, there is no
affinity between them." It seems this wag, after having made
some abortive attempts in plain speaking, had recourse to this
defect, by means of which he frequently extorted the laugh of the
company, without the least expense of genius; and that imper-
fection which he had at first counterfeited, was now become so
habitual that he could not lay it aside.
A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner,
had, on his first introduction, taken such offence at S ,
because he looked and talked, and eat and drank, like any other
man, that he spoke contemptuously of his understanding ever
after, and never would repeat his visit until he had exhibited the
following proof of his caprice : — Wat Wyvil, the poet, having made
some unsuccessful advances towards an intimacy with S , at
last gave him to understand by a third person, that he had written
a poem in his praise, and a satire against his person; that, if he
would admit him to his house, the first should be immediately
sent to the press; but that if he persisted in declining his friend-
ship, he would publish the satire without delay. S replied,
that he looked upon Wyvil's panegyric as, in effect, a species of
infamy, and would resent it accordingly with a good cudgel; but
if he published the satire, he might deserve his compassion, and
had nothing to fear from his revenge. Wyvil, having considered
the alternative, resolved to mortify S by printing the panegyric,
for which he received a sound drubbing. Then he swore the
peace against the aggressor, who, in order to avoid a prosecution
at law, admitted him to his good graces. It was the singularity
SMOLLETT.] AUTHORS OF A CENTURY AGO. 445
in S 's conduct on this occasion that reconciled him to the
yellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he had some genius, and
from that period cultivated his acquaintance.
Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my
fellow-guests were employed, I applied to my communicative
friend, Dick Ivy, who gave me to understand that most of them
were, or had been, under-strappers or journeymen to more credit-
able authors, for whom they translated, collated, and compiled, in
the business of book-making; and that all of them had, at dif-
ferent times, laboured in the service of our landlord, though they
had now set up for themselves in various departments of literature.
Not only their talents, but also their nations and dialogues were
so various, that our conversation resembled the confusion of
tongues at Babel.
We had the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom,
twanged off by the most discordant vociferation , for, as they all
spoke together, no man had any chance to be heard, unless he
could bawl louder than his fellows. It must be owned, however,
that there was nothing pedantic in their discourse ; they carefully
avoided all learned disquisitions, and endeavoured to be facetious;
nor did their endeavours always miscarry. Some droll repartees
passed, and much laughter was excited; and if any individual lost
his temper so far as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was
effectually checked by the master of the feast, who exerted a sort
of paternal authority over this irritable tribe.
The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had
been expelled the university for atheism, had made great progress
in a refutation of Lord Bolingbroke's metaphysical works, which is
said to be equally ingenious and orthodox; but in the mean time
he has been presented to the grand-jury as a public nuisance, for
having blasphemed in an alehouse on the Lord's day. The
Scotchman gives lectures on the pronunciation of the English
language, which he is now publishing by subscription.
The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of
My Lord Potato. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a
minister, hoping his zeal would be rewarded with some place or
446 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
pension; but finding himself neglected in that quarter, he whis-
pered about that the pamphlet was written by the minister himself,
and he published an answer to his own production. In this he
addressed the author under the title of your, lordship with such
solemnity, that the public swallowed the deceit, and bought up
the whole impression. The wise politicians of the metropolis
declared they were both masterly performances, and chuckled
over the flimsy reveries of an ignorant garreteer as the profound
speculations of a veteran statesman, acquainted with all the secrets
of the Cabinet. The imposture was detected in the sequel, and
our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no part of his assumed import-
ance but the bare title of my lord, and the upper part of the table
at the potato ordinary in Shoe Lane.
Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public
with a humorous satire, entitled "The Balance of the English Poets,"
a performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the
author, and, in particular, his intimacy with the elegances of the
English language. The sage who laboured under the dy^of o/3/a,
or horror of green fields, had just finished a treatise on practical
agriculture, though in fact he had never seen corn growing in his
life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer, in the face
of the whole company, made him own that a plate of hominy was
the best rice pudding he had ever ate.
The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe
and part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of the
King's Bench, except in term time, with a tipstaff for his compan-
ion; and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious member of
the whole society, he had happily wound up the catastrophe of a
virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which he promised himself
a large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made shift to live
many years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume;
but that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors,
who publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much
ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart,
and all in the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not
only enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality.
SMOLLETT.] AUTHORS OF A CENTURY AGO. 447
After dinner we adjourned into the garden, where I observed
Mr S gave a short separate audience to every individual, in a
small remote filbert walk, from whence most of them dropped off
one after another,1 without further ceremony; but they were re-
placed by fresh recruits of the same class, who came to make an
afternoon's visit; and, among others, a spruce bookseller, called
Birkin, who rode his own gelding, and made his appearance in a
pair of new jemmy boots, with massy spurs of plate. It was not
without reason that this midwife of the muses used to exercise on
horseback, for he was too fat to walk afoot, and he underwent
some sarcasms from Tim Cropdale, on his unwieldy size and
inaptitude for motion. Birkin, who took umbrage at this poor
author's petulance, in presuming to joke upon a man so much
richer than himself, told him he was not so unwieldy but that he
could move the Marshalsea court for a writ, and even overtake
him with it, if he did not very speedily come and settle accounts
with him respecting the expense of publishing his last Ode to the
King of Prussia, of .which he had sold but three, and one of them
was to Whitefield the Methodist. Tim affected to receive this
intimation with good humour, saying he expected in a post or
two, from Potsdam, a poem of thanks from his Prussian majesty,
who knew very well how to pay poets in their own coin; but, in
the meantime, he proposed that Mr Birkin and he should run
three times round the garden for a bowl of punch, to be drunk at
Ashley's in the evening, and he would run boots against stockings.
The bookseller, who valued himself upon his mettle, was persuaded
to accept the challenge, and he forthwith resigned his boots to
Cropdale, who, when he had put them on, was no bad represen-
tation of Captain Pistol in the play.
Everything being adjusted, they started together with great
impetuosity, and, in the second round, Birkin had clearly the
advantage, larding the lean earth as he puffed along. Cropdale had
no mind to contest the victory further, but in a twinkling dis-
appeared through the back door of the garden, which opened into
a private lane that had communication with the high road. The
spectators immediately began to halloo, "Stole away!" and
448 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
Birkin set off in pursuit of him with great eagerness; but he had
not advanced twenty yards in the lane, when a thorn, running
into his foot, sent him hopping back again into the garden roaring
with pain, and swearing with vexation. When he was delivered
from this annoyance by the Scotchman, who had been bred to
surgery, he looked about him wildly, exclaiming, " Sure, the fellow
won't be such a rogue as to run clear away with my boots I" Our
landlord, having reconnoitred the shoes he had left, which indeed
hardly deserved that name, " Pray," said he, " Mr Birkin, wasn't
your boots made of calf skin?" " Calf skin or cow skin/' replied
the other, " I '11 find a slip of sheep skin that will do his business.
I lost twenty pounds by his farce, which you persuaded me to
buy. I am out of pocket five pounds by his d — d ode ; and now
this pair of boots, bran new, cost me thirty shillings as per receipt.
But this affair of the boots is felony — transportation. I '11 have
the dog indicted at the Old Bailey — I will, Mr S . I will be
revenged, even though I should lose my debt in consequence of
his conviction."
Mr S said nothing at present, but accommodated him with
a pair of shoes, then ordered his servant to rub him down, and
comfort him with a glass of rum punch, which seemed in a great
measure to cool the rage of his indignation. " After all," said our
landlord, "this is no more than a humbug in the way of wit,
though it deserves a more respectable epithet when considered as
an effort of invention. Tim being, I suppose, out of credit with
the cordwainer, fell upon this ingenious expedient to supply the
want of shoes, knowing that Mr Birkin, who loves humour, would
himself relish the joke upon a little recollection. Cropdale lite-
rally lives by his wit, which he has exercised upon all his friends
in their turns. He once borrowed my pony for five or six days
to go to Salisbury, and sold him in Smithfield at his return. This
was a joke of such a serious nature, that, in the first transports of
my passion, I had some thoughts of prosecuting him for horse-
stealing; and even when my resentment had, in some measure
subsided, as he industriously avoided me, I vowed I would take
satisfaction on his ribs with the first opportunity. One day, seeing
SMOLLETT. J AUTHORS OF A CENTURY AGO. 449
him at some distance in the street, coming towards me, I began
to prepare my cane for action, and walked in the shadow of a
porter, that he might not perceive me soon enough to make his
escape; but, in the very instant I had lifted up the instrument of
correction, I found Tim Cropdale metamorphosed into a miserable
blind wretch, feeling his way with a long stick from post to post,
and rolling about two bald unlighted orbs, instead of eyes. I was
exceedingly shocked at having so narrowly escaped the concern
and disgrace that would have attended such a misapplication of
vengeance ; but next day Tim prevailed upon a friend of mine to
come and solicit my forgiveness, and offer his note, payable in six
weeks, for the price of the pony. This gentleman gave me to
understand, that the blind man was no other than Cropdale, who,
having seen me advancing, and, guessing my intent, had imme-
diately converted himself into the object aforesaid. I was so
diverted at the ingenuity of the evasion, that I agreed to pardon
the offence, refusing his note, however, that I might keep a pro-
secution for felony hanging over his head, as a security for his
future good behaviour; but Timothy would by no means trust
himself in my hands till the note was accepted. Then he made
his appearance at my door as a blind beggar, and imposed in such
a manner upon my man, who had been his old acquaintance and
pot-companion, that the fellow threw the door in his face, and
even threatened to give him the bastinado. Hearing a noise in
the hall, I went thither, and, immediately recollecting the figure I
had passed in the street, accosted him by his own name, to the
unspeakable astonishment of the footman.
Birkin declared he loved a joke as well as another ; but asked
if any of the company could tell where Mr Cropdale lodged, that
he might send him a proposal about restitution, before the boots
should be made away with. " I would willingly give him a pair
of new shoes," said he, " and half-a-guinea into the bargain, for
the boots, which fitted me like a glove, and I shan't be able to get
the fellows of them till the good weather for riding is over." The
stuttering wit declared, that the only secret which Cropdale ever
kept was the place of his lodgings ; but he believed that, during
VOL. i. 2 F
45° HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
the heats of summer, he commonly took his repose upon a bulk.
" Confound him !" cried the bookseller, " he might as well have
taken my whip and spurs : in that case, he might have been
tempted to steal another horse, and then he would have rid to the
devil of course."
After coffee, I took: my leave of Mr S , with proper ac-
knowledgments of his civility, and was extremely well pleased
with the entertainment of the day, though not yet satisfied with
respect to the nature of this connexion betwixt a man of character
in the literary world and a parcel of authorlings, who, in all prob-
ability, would never be able to acquire any degree of reputation
by their labours. On this head, I interrogated my conductor,
Dick Ivy, who answered me to this effect : — " One would imagine
S had some view to his own interest, in giving countenance
and assistance to those people whom he knows to be bad men as
well as bad writers ; but, if he has any such view, he will find him-
self disappointed, for, if he is so vain as to imagine he can make
them subservient to his schemes of profit or ambition, they are
cunning enough to make him their property in the meantime.
There is not one of the company you have seen to-day (myself
excepted) who does not owe him particular obligations. One of
them he bailed out of a spunging-house, and afterwards paid the
debt ; another he translated into his family and clothed, when he
was turned out half naked from jail, in consequence of an act for
the relief of insolvent debtors; a third, who was reduced to a
woollen nightcap, and lived, upon sheep's trotters, up three pair of
stairs backward, in Butcher Row, he took into present pay and
free quarters, and enabled him to appear as a gentleman, without
having the fear of sheriff's officers before his eyes. Those who are
in distress he supplies with money when he has it, and with his
credit when he is out of cash. When they want business, he
either finds employment for them in his own service, or recom-
mends them to booksellers, to execute some project he has formed
for their subsistence. They are always welcome to his table,
(which, though plain, is plentiful,) and to his good offices as far
as they will go ; and, when they see occasion, they make use of
VARIOUS.] BIRDS. 45 1
his name with the most petulant familiarity ; nay, they do not
even scruple to arrogate to themselves the merit of some of his
performances, and have been known to sell their own lucubrations
as the produce of his brain. The Scotchman you saw at dinner
once personated him at an alehouse in West Smithfield, and, in
the character of S , had his head broke by a cow-keeper, for
having spoken disrespectfully of the Christian religion ; but he
took the law of him in his own person, and the assailant was fain
to give him ten pounds to withdraw his action."
I have dwelt so long upon authors, that you will perhaps sus-
pect I intend to enrol myself among the fraternity ; but, if I were
actually qualified for the profession, it is at best but a desperate
resource against starving, as it affords no provision for old age and
infirmity. Salmon, at the age of fourscore, is now in a garret,
compiling matter at a guinea a sheet for a modern historian, who,
in point of age, might be his grandchild ; and Psalmanazar, after
having drudged half a century in the literary world, in all the sim-
plicity and abstinence of an Asiatic, subsists upon the charity of
a few booksellers, just sufficient to keep him from the parish. I
think Guy, who was himself a bookseller, ought to have appro-
priated one wing or ward of his hospital to the use of decayed
authors ; though, indeed, there is neither hospital, college, nor
workhouse, within the bills of mortality, large enough to contain
the poor of this society, composed, as it is, of the refuse of
every other profession.
73.—
THE cuckoo — the "plain-song cuckoo" of Bottom the weaver — the "blithe
new-comer," the "darling of the spring," the "blessed bird" of Wordsworth,
the "beauteous stranger of the grove," the "messenger of spring" of Logan,
the cuckoo coming hither from distant lands to insinuate its egg into the spar-
row's nest, and to fly away again with its fledged ones after their cheating
nursing-time is over, little knows what a favourite is her note with school-boys
and poets. Wordsworth's lines to the cuckoo —
'* O blithe new-comer ! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice" —
452 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS
are familiar to all. The charming little poem of Logan, which preceded Words-
worth's, is not so well known : —
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ;
Thou messenger of spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy wand'ring through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear !
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !
Oh, could I fly, I 'd fly with thee !
We 'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring. LOGAN.
The swallow has been another favourite of the poets, even from the days of
the Greek Anacreon : —
Once in each revolving year,
Gentle bird ! we find thee here ;
When nature wears her summer vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest ;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
VARIOUS.] BIRDS. 453
And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas ! unlike the plumed loves
That linger in this helpless breast,
And never, never change their nest !
ANACREON, translated by MOORE.
But " the bird of all birds" is the nightingale. Drummond of Hawthorn-
den, though he never heard the "jug-jug" in his northern clime, has left a
beautiful tribute to this noblest of songsters : —
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers :
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare :
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers,
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven,
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. DRUMMOND.
Milton came after Drummond, with his sonnet to the nightingale : —
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May !
In the " II Penseroso," the poet, dramatically speaking, addresses the night-
ingale : —
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly
Most musical, most melancholy !
The general propriety of the epithet has been controverted in one of the
most delightful pieces of blank verse in our language : —
No cloud, no relic of the sunken day
Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge.
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring : it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still :
A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
454 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars,
And hark ! the nightingale begins its songs,
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird !
A melancholy bird ! Oh, idle thought !
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow) — he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain,
And many a poet echoes the conceit ;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thing ! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ballrooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My friend, and thou, our sister ! we have learnt
A different lore : we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music !
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
VARIOUS.] BIRDS. 455
Thin grass, and king-cups, grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales ; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's songs
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug-jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all —
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes
That gentle maid ! and oft a moment's space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence, till the moon,
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd
Many a nightingale perch'd giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. COLERIDGE.
But the chorus of birds, the full harmony of the grove, is the great charm of
a sunny spring-time. Old Drayton has made his rough verse musical with the
ever-varied songs of the leafy Arden: —
When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,
No sooner does the earth her flowery bosom brave,
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,
But " hunt's up " to the morn the feathered sylvans sing :
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole
456 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
Those quiristers are perch'd, with many a speckled breast.
Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring East
Gilds every lofty top, which late the numerous night
Bespangled had with pearl to please the morning's sight:
On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats,
Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes,
That hills arid valleys ring, and even the echoing air
Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere.
The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he song
T' awake the lustless sun ; or chiding that so long
He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill
The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill;
As nature him had mark'd of purpose to let see
That from all other birds his tunes should different be,
v For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May:
Upon this dulcet pipe the merle doth only play !
When, in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by
In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply,
As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw ;
And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law)
Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite,
They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night.
(The more to use their ears) their voices sure would spare
. That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare,
As man to set in parts at first had leara'd of her.
To Philomel, the next the linnet we prefer;
And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark, place we then
The reed-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast, and the wren.
The yellow-pate, which, though she hurt the blooming tree^
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she.
And of these chaunting fowls, the goldfinch not behind,
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.
The tydy from her notes as delicate as they,
The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay ;
The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves.
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves)
Thus sing away the morn, until the mountain sun
Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run,
And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps,
To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. — DRAYTON.
Wordsworth holds, and with a deep philosophy, that the language of birds
is the expression of pleasure. Let those whose hearts are attuned to peace, in
listening to this language, not forget the poet's moral : —
VARIOUS.] BIRDS. 457
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran ;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths j
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd— •
Their thoughts I cannot measure —
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man ? WORDSWORTH.
We may fitly conclude this selection with Shelley's exquisite ode to the
"Skylark:"
Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! O'er which clouds are bright'ning, .
Bird thou never wert, Thou dost float and run :
That from heaven or near it, Like an unbodied joy whose race is
Pourest thy full heart just begun.
In profuse strains of unpremeditated
^k The pale purple even
Higher still and higher, Melts around thy flight ;
From the earth thou springest Like a star of heaven
Like a cloud of fire ; In the broad daylight,
The blue deep thou wingest, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy
And singing still dost soar, and soar- shrill delight.
ing ever singest.
In the golden lightning Keen as are the arrows
Of the sunken sun, Of that silver sphere,
45 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS.
Whose intense lamp narrows Sound of vernal showers
In the white dawn clear, On the twinkling grass;
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is Rain-awaken'd flowers,
there. All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music
All the earth and air doth surpass.
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare, Teadl us> sPrite or bird>
From one lonely cloud What sweet thoughts are thine :
The moon rains out her beams, and * have never heard
heaven is overflow'd. Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so
What thou art we know not; divine.
What is most like thee ? chorus hymeneal,
From rainbow clouds there flow not Or triumphal chaunt,
Drops so bright to see, Match'd with thine would be all
As from thy presence showers a rain But as empty vaunt_
of melody. A thing wherein we feel there is some
, ,.,, hidden want
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought, What objects are the fountains
Singing hymns unbidden, Of thy happy strain?
Till the world is wrought What fields, or waves, or mountains?
To sympathy, with hopes and fears it What shapes of sky or plain?
needed not. Wliat love of thine own kind? what
ignorance of pain?
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower, With tn? clear keen Jovance
Soothing her love-laden LanSuor cannot be :
Soul in secret hour Shadow of annoyance
With music sweet as love, which over- Never came near thee :
flows her bower. Thou lovest ' but ne er knew love s sad
satiety.
Like a glowworm golden Waking or asleep,
In a dell of dew, Thou of death must deem
Scattering unbeholden Things more true and deep
Its aerial hue Than we mortals dream.
Among the flowers and grass, which Or how could thy notes flow in such a
screen it from the view. crystal stream?
Like a rose embower'd We look before and after,
In its own green leaves, And pine for what is not :
By warm winds deflower'd Our sincerest laughter
Till the scent it gives With some pain is fraught :
Makes faint with too much sweet these Our sweetest songs ate those that tell
heavy -winged thieves. of saddest thought,
DR FRANKLIN.] POOR RICHARD. 459
Yet if we could scorn That in books are found,
Hate, and pride, and fear — Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of
If we were things born the ground !
Not to shed a tear, Teach me half thg gladnesg
I know not how thy joys we ever That thy brain musfc know>
should come near. Such harmonious madness
Better than all measures From my lips would flow,
Of delightful sound, The world should listen then, as I am
Better than all treasures listening now.
SHELLEY.
74.— |)00r gkfmrtr,
DR FRANKLIN.
[WE give a paper by the celebrated Dr Franklin, which has been perhaps
as much read as anything ever written, but which may be new to many of our
younger readers. It has been often printed under the name of "The Way to
Wealth ;" but we scarcely know at the present time where to find it, except in
the large collection of the author's works. " Poor Richard" was the title of
an almanac which Franklin published for twenty- five years, when he was a
printer in America, and the sayings in the following paper are extracted from
those almanacs. His subsequent career as a man of science and a statesman
exhibits what may be accomplished by unwearied industry and a vigilant exer-
cise of the reasoning powers. The great characteristics of Franklin were per-
severance, temperance, and common sense. There have been many higher
minds, but few more formed for practical utility. Benjamin Franklin was born
at Boston in 1706 ; he died in 1790.]
Courteous Reader,
I have heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as
to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how
much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to
relate to you. I stopped my horse, lately, where a great number
of people were collected at an auction of merchants' goods. The
hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on the bad-
ness of the times ; and one of the company called to a plain, clean
old man, with white locks, " Pray, father Abraham, what think
you of the times'? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the
country ] How shall we ever be able to pay them ? What would
you advise us to ?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, " If
460 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Dn FRANKLIN.
you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; 'for a
word to the wise is enough,' as poor Richard says." They joined
in desiring him to speak his mind, and, gathering round him, he
proceeded as follows : —
" Friends," says he, " the taxes are indeed very heavy ; and, if
those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to
pay, we might more easily discharge them ; but we have many
others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed
twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride,
and four times as much by our folly ; and from these taxes the
commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abate-
ment. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something
may be done for us ; ' God helps them that help themselves,' as
poor Richard says.
" I. It would be thought a hard government that should tax
its people one-tenth part of their time to be employed in its ser-
vice ; but idleness taxes many of us much more : sloth, by bring-
ing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. ' Sloth, like rust, con-
sumes faster than labour wears, while the used key is always
bright,' as poor Richard says. ' But dost thou love life, then do
not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of,' as poor
Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in
sleep ; forgetting that 'the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that
there will be sleeping enough in the grave,' as poor Richard says.
" ' If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time
must be/ as poor Richard says, ' the greatest prodigality ; ' since,
as he elsewhere tells us, ' Lost time is never found again ; and
what we call time enough, always proves little enough.' Let us
then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose, so by diligence
shall we do more with less perplexity. ' Sloth makes all things
difficult, but industry all easy, and he that riseth late, must trot
all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while
laziness travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive
thy business, let not that drive thee ; and early to bed, and early
to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' as poor Richard
says.
DR FRANKLIN.] POOR RICHARD. 46 1
"So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times'? We
may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. * Industry
need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There
are no gains without pains ; then help hands for I have no lands,'
or if I have, they are smartly taxed. ' He that hath a trade hath
an estate ; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and
honour/ as poor Richard says ; but thfcn the trade must be worked
at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the
office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious,
we shall never starve ; for * at the working man's house Hunger
looks in but dares not enter.' Nor will the bailiff or the constable
enter, for * industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them.'
What though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich rela-
tion left a legacy, ' Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God
gives all things to industry. Then plough deep, while sluggards
sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep/ Work while
it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be
hindered to-morrow. ' One to-day is worth two to-morrows,' as
poor Richard says ; and farther, ' Never leave that till to-morrow
which you can do to-day.' If you were a servant, would you not
be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle 'l Are you
then your own master 1 Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when
there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country,
and your king. ' Handle your tools without mittens ;' remember
that 'the cat in gloves catches no mice,' as poor Richard says.
It is true there is much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-
handed ; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects ;
for ' Constant dropping wears away stones ; and by diligence and
patience the mouse ate in two the cable ; and little strokes fell
great oaks.'
" Methinks I hear some of you say, ' Must a man afford him-
self no leisure ? ' I will tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard
says : ' Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ;
and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.'
Leisure is time for doing something useful ; this leisure the diligent
man will obtain, but the lazy man never ; for, ' A life of leisure
462 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DR FRANKLIN.
and a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labour, would
live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock ; ' whereas
industry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. ' Fly pleasures,
and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift :
and now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good-
morrow.'
" II. But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled,
and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and
not trust too much to others, for, as poor Richard says —
' I never saw an oft removed tree,
Nor yet an oft removed family,
That throve so well as those that settled be.'
" And again, ' Three removes are as bad as a fire ; ' and again,
' Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee ; ' and again, « If
you would have your business done, go; if not, send;' and
again —
' He that by the plough would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive.'
And again, * The eye of the master will do more work than both
his hands ; ' and again, ' Want of care does us more damage than
want of knowledge ; ' and again, ' Not to oversee workmen, is to
leave them your purse open.' Trusting too much to others' care
is the ruin of many ; for, ' In the affairs of this world, men are
saved, not by faith, but by the want of it ; ' but a man's own care
is profitable, for * If you would have a faithful servant, and one
that you like, serve yourself. A little neglect may breed great
mischief; for want of a nail the shoe was lost ; for want of a shoe
the horse was lost ; and for want of a horse the rider was lost,'
being overtaken and slain by the enemy : all for want of a little
care about a horse-shoe nail.
" III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's
own business ; but to these we must add frugality, if we would
make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he
knows not how to save as he gets, ' keep his nose all his life to
the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen
makes a lean will ; ' and —
DR FRANKLIN.] POOR RICHARD. 463
' Many estates are spent in the getting,
Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,
And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.'
1 If you would be wealthy, think of saving, as well as of getting.
The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her out-goes are
greater than her in-comes.'
"Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not
then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes,
and chargeable families ; for —
' Women and wine, game and deceit,
Make the wealth small, and the want great.'
And farther, ' What maintains one vice, would bring up two chil-
dren.' You may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a little punch
now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and
a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter ; but
remember, ' Many a little makes a mickle.' Beware of little ex-
penses ; ' A small leak will sink a great ship,' as poor Richard
says j and again, ' Who dainties love, shall beggars prove ; and,
moreover, ' Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.' Here
you are all got together to this sale of fineries and nick-nacks.
You call them goods ; but, if you do not take care, they will prove
evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and,
perhaps, they may for less than they cost ; but, if you have no
occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what
poor Richard says, ' Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long
thou shalt sell thy necessaries.' And again, ' At a great penny-
worth pause a while ;' he means, that perhaps the cheapness is
apparent only, and not real ; or the bargain, by straitening thee
in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in an-
other place he says, ' Many have been ruined by buying good
pennyworths.' Again, * It is foolish to lay out money in a pur-
chase of repentance ;' and yet this folly is practised every day at
auctions, for want of minding the Almanack. Many a one, for
the sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly,
and half starved their families ; ' Silks and satins, scarlet and
velvets, put out the kitchen fire/ as poor Richard says. These
464 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DR FRANKLIK.
are not the necessaries of life ; they can scarcely be called the
conveniences ; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many
want to have them ! By these and other extravagances, the
greatest are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those
whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and
frugality, have maintained their standing ; in which case it appears
plainly, that ' A ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman
on his knees/ as poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a
small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of; they
think, ' It is day, and will never be night ;' that a little to be
spent out of so much is not worth minding ; but * Always taking
out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the
bottom,' as poor Richard says ; and then ' When the well is dry,
they know the worth of water.' But this they might have known
before, if they had taken his advice. * If you would know the
value of money, go and try to borrow some ; for he that goes a
borrowing goes a sorrowing,' as Poor Richard says; and, indeed,
so does he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it in
again. Poor Dick farther advises, and says,
' Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse ;
Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.'
And again, ' Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great deal
more saucy.' When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy
ten more, that your appearance may be all of a piece ; but poor
Dick says, ' It is easier to suppress the first desire, than to satisfy
all that follow it.' And it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the
rich, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox.
' Vessels large may venture more,
But little boats should keep near shore.'
It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Richard says,
' Pride that dines on vanity, sups on contempt ; Pride breakfasted
with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with Infamy/ And
after all, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so
much is risked, so much is suffered ? It cannot promote health,
DR FRANKLIN.] POOR RICHARD. 465
nor ease pain ; it makes no increase of merit in the person ; it
creates envy, it hastens misfortune.
" But what madness it must be to run in debt for these super-
fluities ! We are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months'
credit ; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it,
because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be
fine without it. But, ah ! think what you do when you run in
debt; you give to another power over your liberty. If you can-
not pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor;
you will be in fear when you speak to him; you will make poor
pitiful sneaking excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your
veracity, and sink into base downright lying ; for ' The second
vice is lying, the first is running in debt,' as Poor Richard says :
and again, to the same purpose, ' Lying rides upon debt's back ;'
whereas a freeborn Englishman ought not to be ashamed nor
afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often de-
prives a man of all spirit and virtue. ' It is hard for an empty
bag to stand upright' What would you think of that prince, or
of that government, who should' issue an edict forbidding you to
dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment
or servitude ? Would you not say that you were free, have a
right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a
breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? and
yet you are about to put yourself under that tyranny, when you
run in debt for such dress ! Your creditor has authority, at his
pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in gaol
for life, or by selling you for a servant, if you should not be able
to pay him. When you have got your bargain, you may, perhaps,
think little of payment ; but, as Poor Richard says, ' Creditors
have better memories than debtors : creditors are a superstitious
sect, great observers of days and times.' The day comes round
before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are
prepared to satisfy it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term
which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely
short : Time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well
as his shoulders. '-Those have a short Lent, who owe money to
VOL. I. 2 G
466 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. PR FRANKLIN.
be paid at Easter.' At present, perhaps, you may think your-
selves in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little
extravagance without injury ; but
' For age and want save while you may,
No morning sun lasts a whole day. '
" Gain may be temporary and uncertain ; but ever, while you
live, expense is constant and certain ; and ' It is easier to build,
two chimneys than to keep one in fuel/ as Poor Richard says :
so, ' Rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt.'
' Get what you can, and what you get hold,
'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.'
And, when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no
longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes.
" IV. This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom ; but,
after all, do not depend too much upon your own industry, and
frugality, and prudence, though excellent things ; for they may
all be blasted without the blessing of Heaven; and, therefore,
ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that
at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remem-
ber, Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.
" And now to conclude, ' Experience keeps a dear school, but
fools will learn in no other,' as Poor Richard says, and scarce in
that; for it is true, 'We may give advice, but we cannot give con-
duct/ However, remember this, ' They that will not be coun-
selled, cannot be helped :' and further, that, 'If you will not
hear reason, she will surely wrap your knuckles,' as Poor Richard
says."
Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people
heard it, and approved the doctrine, and immediately practised
the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the
auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly. I found
the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanack, and digested
all I had dropped on these topics during the course of twenty-five
years. The frequent mention he made of me must have tired any
BACON.] OF GREAT PLACE. 467
one else; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though
I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own
which he ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had
made of the sense of all ages and nations. However, I resolved
to be the better for the echo of it; and, though I had at first de-
termined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to
wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the
same, thy profit will be as great as mine, — I am, as ever, thine to
serve thee, RICHARD SAUNDERS.
75.— ®i feat f lm.
BACON.
MEN in great place are thrice servants : servants of the sove-
reign or state; servants of fame ; and servants of business. So as
they have no freedom, neither in their persons; nor in their actions;
nor in their times. It is a strange desire to seek power, and to lose
liberty; or to seek power over others, and to lose power over a
man's self. The rising unto place is laborious ; and by pains men
come to greater pains; and it is sometimes base: and by indigni-
ties, men come to dignities. The standing is slippery, and the re-
gress is either a downfall, or at least an eclipse, which is a melan-
choly thing: Cum non sis, quifueris, non esse, cur velis vivere'l*
Nay, retire men cannot when they would; neither will they when it
were reason : but are impatient of privateness, even in age and sick-
ness, which require the shadow; like old townsmen that will be
still sitting at their street door, though thereby they offer age to
scorn. Certainly, great persons had need to borrow other men's
opinions to think themselves happy; for if they judge by their
own feeling, they cannot find it ; but if they think with themselves
what other men think of them, and that other men would fain be
as they are, then they are happy, as it were by report, when per-
haps they find the contrary within. For they are the first that
* Since you are no longer what you were, there is no reason why you should
desire to live as a nonentity.
468 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. ^ACON,
find their own griefs ; though they be the last that find their own
faults. Certainly, men in great fortunes are strangers to them-
selves; and while they are in the push of business, they have no
time to tend their health, either of body or mind. //// morsgravis
incubat, qui notus nimis omnibus, ignotus moritur sibi* In place,
there is licence to do good and evil; whereof the latter is a curse;
for in evil the best condition is not to will; the second, not to
care. But power to do good is the true and lawful end of aspir-
ing. For good thoughts, (though God accept them,) yet towards
men are little better than good dreams, except they be put in act,
and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage and
commanding ground. Merit and good works is the end of man's
motion; and conscience of the same is the accomplishment of
man's rest. For if a man can be partaker of God's theatre he
shall likewise be partaker of God's rest. Et conversus Deus, ut
aspiceret opera, qua fecerunt manus sutz, vidit quod omnia essent bond
nimis ;\ and then the Sabbath. In the discharge of thy place set
before thee the best examples ; for imitation is a globe of pre-
cepts. And after a time set before thee thine own example; and
examine thyself strictly whether thou didst not best at first. Ne-
glect not also the examples of those that have carried themselves
ill in the same place; not to set off thyself by taxing their
memory, but to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform, therefore,
without bravery or scandal of former times and persons; but yet,
set it down to thyself as well to create good precedents, as to
follow them. Reduce things to the first institution, and observe
wherein and how they have degenerate, but yet ask counsel of
both times; of the ancient time what is best; and of the latter
time what is fittest. Seek to make thy course regular, that men
may know beforehand what they may expect; but be not too
positive and peremptory; and express thyself well when thou
digressest from thy rule. Preserve the right of thy place, but stir
* Death is a severe infliction on him who dies well-known to others, and
unknown to himself.
t And when God turned to behold all the works which His hand had made,
He saw that they were veiy good.
BACON.] OF GREAT PLACE. 469
not questions of jurisdiction. And rather assume thy right in
silence, and de facto, than voice it with claims and challenges.
Preserve likewise the rights of inferior places, and think it more
honour to direct in chief, than to be busy in all. Embrace and
invite helps and advices touching the execution of thy place, and
do not drive away such as bring thee information, as meddlers,
but accept of them in good part. The vices of authority are
chiefly four : delays, corruption, roughness, and facility. For de-
lays; give easy access, keep times appointed, go through with
that which is in hand, and interlace not business but of necessity.
For corruption ; do not only bind thine own hands, as thy ser-
vants' hands, from taking, but bind the hands of suitors also from
offering. For integrity used doth the one ; but integrity professed,
and with a manifest detestation of bribery, doth the other. And
avoid not only the fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is found
variable, and changeth manifestly without manifest cause, giveth
suspicion of corruption. Therefore, always, when thou changest
thine opinion or course, profess it plainly, and declare it, together
with the reasons that move thee to change, and do not think to
steal it. A servant or a favourite if he be inward, and no other
apparent cause of esteem, is commonly thought but a by-way to
close corruption. For roughness ; it is a needless cause of dis-
content; severity breedeth fear, but roughness breedeth hate.
Even reproofs from authority ought to be grave, and not taunting.
As for facility ; it is worse than bribery. For bribes come but
now and then, but if importunity or idle respects lead a man, he
shall never be without. As Solomon saith, " To respect persons
is not good, for such a man will transgress for a piece of bread."
It is most true that was anciently spoken; a place showeth the
man ; and it showeth some to the better, and some to the worse.
" Omnium consensu capax Imperil, nisi imperasset"* saith Tacitus
of Galba ; but of Vespasian he saith, " Solus Imperantium Ves-
patianus mutatus in melius;"\ though the one was meant of
* He would have been universally deemed fit for empire if he had never reigned.
f Vespasian was the only emperor who was changed for the better by his
accession.
470 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Guizor.
sufficiency, the other of manners and affection. It is an assured
sign of a worthy and generous spirit whom honour amends. For
honour is, or should be, the place of virtue. And as in nature
things move violently to their places, and calmly in their place ;
so virtue in ambition is violent, in authority settled and calm.
All rising to great place is by a winding stair; and if there be fac-
tions, it is good to side a man's self, whilst he is in the rising;
and to balance himself, when he is placed. Use the memory of
thy predecessor fairly and tenderly; for if thou dost not, it is a
debt will sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou have col-
leagues, respect them, and rather call them, when they look not
for it, than exclude them when they have reason to look to be
called. Be not too sensible, or too remembering of thy place,
in conversation, and private answers to suitors; but let it rather
be said, when he sits in place, he is another man.
76. — (Ebilisaftott,
GUIZOT.
[WE have translated the following broad view of Civilisation from M.
Guizot's " Histoire Generale de la Civilisation en Europe." Of that remark-
able volume there is a very good translation — as also of the " History of Civili-
sation in France " — by Mr W. Hazlitt, the son of the eminent critic. M.
Guizot was born at Nismes in 1787 j was a journalist in the time of Napoleon,
and was wholly devoted to literature till 1816. He then became distinguished
as a politician ; and was Prime Minister of France when the Revolution of
1848 hurled Louis Philippe from the throne. He is once more a private man
— happier perhaps, and as useful.]
The term civilisation has been used for a long period of time,
and in many countries : ideas more or less limited, more or less
comprehensive, are attached to it, but still it is adopted and un-
derstood. It is the sense of this word, the general, human, and
popular sense, that we must study. There is almost always more
truth in the usual acceptation of general terms, than in the appa-
rently more precise and hard definitions of science. Common
GUIZOT.] CIVILISA T10N. 47 1
sense has given to words their ordinary signification, and com-
mon sense is the genius of mankind. The ordinary signification
of a word is formed step by step in connexion with facts ; as a
fact occurs, which appears to come within the sense of a known
term, it is received as such, so to speak, naturally; the sense of
the term becomes enlarged and extended, and by degrees the
different facts, and different ideas which in virtue of the nature of
the things themselves, men ought to class under this word, be-
come in fact so classed. When the sense of a word, on the othei
hand, is determined by science, this determination, the work of
one individual, or of a small number of persons, originates under
the influence of some particular fact which has struck upon their
minds. Therefore scientific definitions are generally much more
limited, and from that alone, much less true in the main than the
popular sense of terms. In studying as a fact the meaning of
the word civilisation, in seeking out all the ideas that are compre-
hended within the term, according to the common sense of man,
we shall make more advances in the knowledge of the fact itself
than if we ourselves attempted to give to it a scientific definition,
though that definition might at first appear more precise and
clear.
To begin this investigation, I shall endeavour to place before
you some hypotheses; I shall describe a certain number of states
of society, and then we will see if common instinct can point out
the civilised state of society, the state which exemplifies the mean-
ing that mankind naturally attaches to the term civilisation.
Suppose a people whose external life is pleasant and easy; they
pay few taxes, they have no hardships; justice is well administered
in all private relations; in a word, material existence, taken as a
whole, is well and happily regulated. But at the same time the
intellectual and moral existence of this people is carefully kept
in a state of torpor and sluggishness — I do not say, of oppression,
because that feeling does not exist among them, but of compres-
sion. This state of things is not without example. There have
been a great number of small aristocratic republics where the
people have been thus treated like flocks, well attended and cor-
472 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Guizor.
poreally happy, but without intellectual and moral activity. Is
this civilisation1? Is this a people civilising itself?
Here is another hypothesis. Suppose a people whose material
existence is less easy, less agreeable, but endurable nevertheless.
In compensation, their moral and intellectual wants have not been
neglected ; a certain amount of mental food is distributed to
them ; pure and elevated sentiments are cultivated among this
people j their moral and religious opinions have attained a certain
degree of development ; but great care is taken to extinguish the
principle of liberty; satisfaction is given to intellectual and moral
wants, as elsewhere to material wants ; to each is given his portion
of truth, no one is permitted to seek it by himself. Immobility
is the character of the moral life ; this is the state into which the
greater part of the populations of Asia have fallen, where theo-
cratical dominion holds back humanity : this is the condition of
the Hindoos, for example. I ask the same question as about the
preceding people : is this a people civilising itself?
I will now completely change the nature of the hypothesis.
Imagine a people among whom there is a great display of some
individual liberties, but among whom disorder and inequality are
excessive : strength and chance have the dominion ; every one,
if he is not strong, is oppressed, suffers, and perishes ; violence
is the ruling character of the social state. Everybody is aware
that Europe has passed through this state. Is it a civilised state ?
It may doubtless contain the principles of civilisation which will
develop themselves by degrees, but the acting principle of such
a society is not, unquestionably, what the judgment of men calls
civilisation.
I take a fourth and last hypothesis. The liberty of each indi-
vidual is very great ; inequality between them is rare, or, at least,
very transient. Every one does nearly what he likes, and in
power differs little from his neighbour ; but there are very few
general interests, very few public ideas, in a word, very little socia-
bility: the faculties and existence of each individual come forth
and flow on in isolation, without one influencing the other, and
without leaving any trace behind; successive generations leave
GUIZOT.] CIVILISATION. 473
society at the same point at which they found it. This is the
condition of savage tribes ; liberty and equality exist, and yet,
most certainly, civilisation does not.
I could multiply these hypotheses ; but I think I have brought
forward sufficient to elucidate the popular and natural meaning
of the word civilisation.
It is clear that neither of the conditions I have just sketched
answers, according to the natural and right understanding of
men, to this term. Why not ? It appears to me that the first
fact which is comprehended in the word civilisation (and this is
the result of the various examples I have placed before you) is
the fact of progress, of development ; it immediately gives the
idea of a people, going on, not to change its place, but to change
its condition ; of a people whose condition becomes extended
and ameliorated? The idea of progression, of development,
seems to me to be the fundamental idea contained in the word
civilisation.
What is this progression 1 What is this development ? Here
lies the greatest difficulty we have to encounter.
The etymology of the word seems to answer in a clear and
satisfactory manner, it tells us that it means the perfecting of
civil life, the development of society properly so called, of the
relations of men among themselves.
Such is in fact the first idea that offers itself to the minds of
men, when they utter the word civilisation : they directly think
of the extension, the greatest activity, and the best organisation
of all social relations ; on one hand, an increasing production of
means of power and prosperity in society; on the other, a more
equal distribution, among individuals, of the power and prosperity
produced.
Is this all? Have we exhausted the natural and common
meaning of the word civilisation? Does it contain nothing
more?
This is almost as if we asked : is the human species after all
merely an ant-hill, a society where it is merely a question of order
and prosperity, where the greater the amount of work done, and
474 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Guizor.
the more equitable the division of the fruits of that work, the
more the aim is attained, and the progress accomplished ?
The instinct of men repels so limited a definition of human
destiny. It appears, at the first view, that the word civilisation
comprehends something more extended, more complex, superior
to the mere perfection of social relations, of social power, and
prosperity.
Facts, public opinion, the generally received meaning of the
term, agree with this instinct.
Take Rome in the prosperous time of the Republic, after the
second Punic war, at the moment of her greatest power, when
she was marching to the conquest of the world, when her social
state was evidently progressing. Then take Rome under Augustus,
at the time when her fall commenced, at least when the progres-
sive movement of society was arrested, wheh evil principles
were on the point of prevailing. Yet there is no one who
does not think and does not say that the Rome of Augus-
.tus was more civilised than the Rome of Fabricius or of Cin-
cinnatus.
Let us go elsewhere ; let us take the France of the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries : it is evident, in a social point of view,
that as to the amount and distribution of prosperity among indi-
viduals, the France of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
was inferior to some other countries of Europe, to Holland, and
to England, for example. I think that in Holland and in Eng-
land social activity was greater, was increasing more rapidly, and
distributing its fruits better than in France. Yet, consult the
judgment of men ; that will tell you that France in the seven-
teenth and eighteenth centuries was the civilised country of
Europe. Europe has not hesitated in answering this question.
We find traces of this public opinion respecting France in all the
monuments of European literature.
We could point out many other states where prosperity is
greater, increases more rapidly, and is better divided among in-
dividuals than elsewhere, and yet where, by spontaneous instinct,
in the judgment of men, the civilisation is considered inferior to
GUIZOT.] CIVILISATION. 475
that of other countries whose purely social relations are not so
well regulated.
What is to be said 1 What do these countries possess, what
gives them this privileged right to the name of civilised, which
compensates so largely, in the opinion of men, for what they want
in other respects ?
Another development, besides that of social life, is in them
strikingly manifested ; the development of individual life, of in-
ternal life, the development of man himself, of his faculties, of his
sentiments, of his ideas. If society is more imperfect than else-
where, humanity appears with more grandeur and power. There
remain many social conquests to make, but immense intellectual
and moral conquests are accomplished; many men stand in need
of many benefits and many rights; but many great men live and
shine before the world. Literature, science, and the arts display
all their splendour. Wherever mankind sees these great types,
these glorified images of human nature shining, wherever he sees
this treasury of sublime enjoyments progressing, then he recog-
nises it as, and calls it, civilisation.
Two facts, then, are comprised in this great fact : it subsists on
two conditions, and shows itself by two symptoms ; the develop-
ment of social activity, and of individual activity, the progress of
society, and the progress of humanity. Wherever the external
condition is extended, vivified, and ameliorated, wherever the
internal nature of man displays itself with brilliancy and grandeur;
by these two signs, and often in spite of the profound imperfection
of the social state, mankind applauds and proclaims civilisation.
Such is, if I am not mistaken, the result of the simple, purely
rational examination of the general opinion of men. If we con-
sult history, properly so called, if we examine the nature of the
grand crises of civilisation, of those facts which, as acknowledged
by all, have caused a great step in civilisation, we always
recognise one or other of the two elements I have just de-
scribed. It has always been crises of individual or social de-
velopment; "always facts which have changed the internal man,
his faith, his manners, or his external condition, his situation
476 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROWNING.
in his relations with his fellows. Christianity, for example — I do
not say merely at the time of its first appearance, but in the
earlier centuries of its existence — Christianity did not in any way
influence the social state; it openly announced that it would not
interfere with that; it ordered the slave to obey his master: it
attacked none of the great evils, the great injustices of the society
of that period. Notwithstanding this, who will deny that Chris-
tianity has been since then a great crisis of civilisation ? Why ]
Because it has changed the internal man, his creeds and senti-
ments, because it has regenerated the moral and intellectual man.
57,— 8$« |P«fc f ipwr 0f
BROWNING.
[THE author of the following "Child's Story," as he calls it, is one of the
most original poets of our time. He has a wonderful power of versification,—
and qualities even higher. But his depth of thought often goes into the ob-
scure ; — and as his poetry is mainly suggestive, and consequently makes large
demands on the imagination of the reader, Mr Browning can scarcely be called
popular, though he has, most deservedly, a large body of admirers. The story
of the " Pied Piper of Hamelin " did not spring from the poet's invention, but,
in the middle of the seventeenth century, was a legend firmly believed through-
out Germany. It is thus told by James Howell, in one of his interesting letters
bearing the date of 1643 : — "The town of Hamelin was annoyed with rats
and mice ; and it chanced that a pied-coated piper came thither, who cove-
nanted with the chief burghers for such a reward, if he could free them quite
from the said vermin, nor would he demand it till a twelvemonth and a day
after. The agreement being made, he began to play on his pipes, and all the
rats and the mice followed him to a great sough hard by, where they all perished,
so the town was infested no more. At the end of the year, the pied piper re-
turned for his reward, the burghers put him off with slightings and neglect,
offering him some small matter, which he, refusing, and staying some days
in the town, on Sunday morning at high mass, when most people were at
church, he fell to play on his pipes, and all the children up and down, followed
him out of the town, to a great hill not far off, which rent in two and opened,
and let him and the children in, and so closed up again. This happened a
matter of two hundred and fifty years since, and in that town they date their
bills and bonds and other instruments in law, to this day from the year of the
going out of their children. Besides there is a great pillar of stone at the foot
of the said hill, whereon this story is engraven."]
BROWNING.] THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 47 7
I.
Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city ;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side ;
A pleasanter spot you never spied ;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.
Rats!
ii.
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
in.
At last the people in a body
To the town hall came flocking :
" Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor 's a noddy ;
And as for our Corporation — shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What 's best to rid us of our vermin !
You hope, because you 're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease 1
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking
478 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROWNING.
To find the remedy we 're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing !"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation,
IV.
An hour they sate in council,
At length the. Mayor broke silence :
" For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown sell ;
I wish I were a mile hence !
It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain —
I 'm sure my poor head aches again,
I Ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! "
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ?
" Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what 's that?"
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat ;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous,)
" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat 1"
v.
" Come in !" the Mayor cried, looking bigger :
And in did come the strangest figure.
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red ;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,
BROWNING.] THE PIED PIPER OF HAM ELI N. 479
But lips where smiles went out and in — •
There was no guessing his kith and kin !
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire :
Quoth one : " It *s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone."
VI.
He advanced to the council-table :
And, " Please your honours," said he, " I 'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw !
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self same check ;
And at the scarfs end hung a pipe ;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats ;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats :
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders ?"
480 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROWNING.
"One? fifty thousand !" — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII.
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while ;
Then like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered ;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling :
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the River Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished
— Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat- land home his commentary,
Which was, " At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
BROWNING.] THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 481
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe :
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery,
Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice !
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery !
To munch or crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon !
And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, come, bore me !
— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
VIII.
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rock'd the steeple ;
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles !
Poke out the nests and block up the holes !
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats !" — when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place,
With a " First, if you please, my thousand guilders !"
IX.
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For Council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock ;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
VOL. I. 2 H
HALF-HCURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROWNING.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow !
" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
" Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what 's dead can't come to life, I think.
So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
" No trifling ! I can't wait, beside !
I 've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the head cook's pottage, all he 's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor.
With him I proved no bargain-driver —
With you, don't think I '11 bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."
XI.
"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook
Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
BROWNING.] THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 483
XII.
Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musicians cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by —
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser roll'd its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from south to west,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
484 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BROWNING.
And after him the children pressed ;
Great was the joy in every breast.
" He never can cross that mighty top !
He 's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!"
When lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Did I say all? No! one was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say —
"It's dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can't forget that I 'm bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me ;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings;
And horses were born with eagle's wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!"
BROWNING.] THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 485
XIV.
Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in !
The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south
To offer the Piper by word or mouth,
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he 'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
" And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of Jiily,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it the Pied Piper's Street—-
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church window painted
The same to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
486 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BISHOP HALL,
That in Transylvania there 's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why they don't understand.
xv.
So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men — especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
78.— «0 all
BISHOP HALL.
I grant brevity, where it is neither obscure nor defective, is
very pleasing, even to the daintiest judgments. No marvel, there-
fore, if most men desire much good counsel in a narrow room ;
as some affect to have great personages drawn in little tablets, or
as we see worlds of countries described in the compass of small
maps. Neither do I unwillingly yield to follow them ; for both
the powers of good advice are the stronger when they are thus
united, and brevity makes counsel more portable for memory and
readier for use. Take these therefore for more ; which as I
would fain practise, so am I willing to commend. Let us begin
with Him who is the first and last ; inform yourself aright con-
cerning God ; without whom, in vain do we know all things :
be acquainted with that Saviour of yours, which paid so much
for you on earth, and now sues for you in heaven ; without whom
we have nothing to do with God, nor He with us. Adore Him
BISHOP HALL.] TO ALL READERS. 487
in your thoughts, trust Him with yourself: renew your sight of
Him every day, and His of you. Overlook these earthly things ;
and, when you do at any time cast your eyes upon heaven, think
there dwells my Saviour, there I shall be. Call yourself to often
reckonings; cast up your debts, payments, graces, wants, ex-
penses, employments; yield not to think your set devotions
troublesome; take not easy denials from yourself; yea, give
peremptory denials to yourself: he can never be any good that
flatters himself : hold nature to her allowance ; and let your will
stand at courtesy : happy is that man which hath obtained to be
the master of his own heart. Think all God's outward favours
and provisions the best for you : your own ability and actions the
meanest. Suffer not your mind to be either a drudge or a wanton ;
exercise it ever, but overlay it not : in all your businesses, look,
through the world, at God; whatsoever is your level, let Him be
your scope : every day take a view of your last : and think either
it is this or may be : offer not yourself either to honour or labour,
let them both seek you : care you only to be worthy, and you
cannot hide you from your God. So frame yourself to the
time and company, that you may neither serve it nor sullenly
neglect it ; and yield so far as you may neither betray goodness
nor countenance evil. Let your words be few and digested; it is
a shame for the tongue to cry the heart mercy, much more to cast
itself upon the uncertain pardon of others' ears. There are but
two things which a Christian is charged to buy, and not to sell,
Time and Truth ; both so precious, that we must purchase them
at any rate. So use your friends, as those which should be per-
petual, may be changeable. While you are within yourself, there
is no danger: but thoughts once uttered must stand to hazard.
Do not hear from yourself what you would be loath to hear from
others. In all good things, give the eye and ear the full scope,
for they let into the mind : restrain the tongue, for it is a spender.
Few men have repented them of silence. In all serious matters
take counsel of days, and nights, and friends ; and let leisure ripen
your purposes : neither hope to gain aught by suddenness. The
first thoughts may be confident, the second are wiser. Serve
488 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROGER NORTH.
honesty ever, though without apparent wages : she will pay sure,
if slow. As in apparel,«so in actions, know not what is good, but
what becomes you. How many warrantable acts have misshapen
the authors ! Excuse not your own ill, aggravate not others' : and
if you love peace, avoid censures, comparisons, contradictions.
Out of good men choose acquaintance ; of acquaintance, friends ;
of friends, familiars ; after probation admit them ; and after ad-
mittance, change them not. Age commendeth friendship. Do
not always your best : it is neither wise nor safe for a man ever
to stand upon the top of his strength. If you would be above
the expectation of others, be ever below yourself. Expend after
your purse, not after your mind : take not where you may deny,
except upon conscience of desert, or hope to requite. Either
frequent suits or complaints are wearisome to a friend. Rather
smother your griefs and wants as you may, than be either queru-
lous or importunate. Let not your face belie your heart, nor
always tell tales out of it : he is fit to live amongst friends or
enemies that can ingeniously be close. Give freely, sell thriftly:
change seldom your place, never your state : either amend incon-
veniences or swallow them, rather than you should run from
yourself to avoid them.
In all your reckonings for the world cast up some crosses
that appear not ; either those will come or may. Let your sus-
picions be charitable ; your trust fearful : your censures sure.
Give way to the anger of the great. The thunder and cannon
will abide no fence. As in throngs we are afraid of loss, so,
while the world comes upon you, look well to your soul ; there
is more danger in good than in evil.
79.— Sir
ROGER NORTH.
[ONE of the most entertaining books in our language is " The Life of the
Lord Keeper Guilford," by the Hon. Roger North. The same biographer
also wrote the lives of the Lord Keeper's brothers, Sir Dudley North, and
Dr John North. These biographies of three eminent men, by their relation
ROGER NORTH.] SIR DUDLEY NORTH. 489
and contemporary, were not published till the middle of the last century.
Sir Dudley North was a merchant, who had long resided in Turkey, and
returned to England in the time of Charles II. He was a man of great
ability; and his notions on matters of commerce were far in advance of
his age.]
But now we have our merchant, sheriff, alderman, commissioner,
&c., at home with us, a private person, divested of all his mant-
lings ; and we may converse freely with him in his family, and
by himself, without clashing at all against any concern of the
public. And possibly, in this capacity, I may show the best side
of his character ; and, for the advantage of that design, shall here
recount his retired ways of entertaining himself from his first
coming from Constantinople to England. He delighted much
in natural observations, and what tended to explain mechanic
powers ; and particularly that wherein his own concern lay, beams
and scales, the place of the centres, the form of the centre-pins,
what share the fulcrum, and what the force, or the weight, bore
with respect to each other ; and, that he might not be deceived,
had made proofs by himself of all the forms of scales that he
could imagine could be put in practice for deceiving.
When he came first to England, all things were new to him,
and he had an infinite pleasure in going about to see the consider-
able places and buildings about town. I, like an old dame with
a young damsel, by conducting him, had the pleasure of seeing
them over again myself. And an incomparable pleasure it was j
for, at all remarkables, he had ingenious turns of wit and morality,
as well as natural observations. But once I was very well pleased
' to see the power of habit, even in his mind, and apprehension of
things. I carried him to Bridewell, where, in the hemp-house,
there was a fair lady, well habited, at a block. We got in and
surveyed her : but the cur that let us in at the door put on his
touchy airs, expecting his sop at our going out, and spoke hoarse
and loud. My gentleman could not for his life but be afraid of that
fellow, and was not easy when we went in, nor while we stayed ;
for he confessed himself that the rascal was so like a Turkish
490
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROGER NORTH.
chiaus, he could not bear him, and wondered at me for making
so slight of him and his authority, and really fancied we should
not get clear of him without some mischief or other. Such was
indeed a necessary prudence at Constantinople : and not only in
this, but in the cases of other merchants, who had lived in Turkey,
I have observed, that if there were a crowd, or a clatter in the
NORTH VISITING BRIDEWELL. (Page 489.)
street, to which most people go to see what is the matter, they
always draw back for fear of being singled out to be beaten. In
a cathedral church I could scarce get my merchant to take a
place with me ; but he would pull and correct me as being too
forward, and for fear of some inconvenience. Here is a conse-
quence of living under absolute and rigorous lords. Whereas,*
amongst us, there is scarce any regard at all had to superior
powers ; if I may term such, that cannot punish but in mood and
figure, and by due course of law.
He took pleasure in surveying the Monument, and comparing
it with mosque towers, and what of that kind he had seen
abroad. We mounted up to the top, and, one after another,
crept up the hollow iron frame that carries the copper head and
ROGER NORTH.] vS1//? DUDLEY NOR TH. 49 1
flames above. We went out at a rising plate of iron that hinged,
and there found convenient irons to hold by. We made use of
them, and raised our bodies entirely above the flames, having
only our legs, to the knees, within ; and there we stood till we
were satisfied with the prospects from thence. I cannot describe
how hard it was to persuade ourselves we stood safe ; so likely
did our weight seem to throw down the whole fabric. But the
adventure at Bow Church was more extraordinary. For, being
come to the upper row of columns, next under the dragon, I
could go round between the columns and the newel; but his
corpulence would not permit him to do that ; wherefore he took
the column in his arm, and swung his body about on the outside ;
and so he did quite round. Fancy, that in such a case would
have destroyed many, had little power over his reason, that told
him there was no difficulty nor danger in what he did.
He was so great a lover of building, that St Paul's, then well
advanced, was his ordinary walk : there was scarce a course of
stones laid, while we lived together, over which we did not walk.
And he would always climb to the uppermost heights. Much
time have we spent there in talking of the work, engines, tackle,
&c. He showed me the power of friction in engines; for, when
a capstan was at work, he did but gripe the ropes, between the
weight and the fulcrum, in his hand, and all was fast; and double
the number of men at the capstan could not have prevailed
against the impediment, to have raised the stone, till he let go.
We usually went there on Saturdays, which were Sir Christopher
Wren's days, who was the surveyor; and we commonly got a
snatch of discourse with him, who, like a true philosopher, was
always obliging and communicative, and, in every matter we in-
quired about, gave short, but satisfactory answers. When we
were upon Bow Steeple, the merchant had a speculation not un-
like that of a ship, in the Bay of Smyrna, seen from the moun-
tains. Here the streets appeared like small trenches, in which
the coaches glided along without any unevenness, as we could ob-
serve. " Now this," said he, " is like the world. Who would not
be pleased in passing so equably from place to place ? It is so
492 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ROGER NORTH.
when we look upon great men, who, in their courses, at our dis-
tance, seem to glide no less smoothly on; and we do not perceive
the many rude jolts, tossings, and wallo wings they feel; as who-
ever rides in that coach feels enough to make his bones ache, of
which, to our notice, there is no discovery. And further," said he,
" let not the difficulties, that will occur in the way of most trans-
actions, however reasonable, deter men from going on ; for here
is a coach not for a moment free from one obstruction or other;
and yet it goes on, and arrives, at last, as was designed at first."
He loved travelling, but hated a coach, because it made him a
prisoner, and hindered his looking about to survey the country,
in which he took a great pleasure ; and, for that reason, he loved
a horse. I had a grave pad that fitted him, and he always desired
the use of that sage animal, that was very sure and easy, but slow.
While his wife's mother, the Lady Cann, lived at Bristol, he made
annually a visit to her: and, when I had the honour to serve as
recorder there, I accompanied him. We joined equipages, and
sometimes returned across the country to Wroxton, the residence
of the late Lord Guilford. We had the care of affairs there, as
trustees for the young Lord Guilford, who was sent abroad to
travel; and we thought it no disservice to our trust to reside
upon the spot some time in summer; which we did, and had
therein our own convenience, and charged ourselves in the
accounts to the full value of ourselves, and the diet for our
horses. But, our way of living there being somewhat extraordi-
nary, I think it reasonable to give an account of it. In the first
place, the lady had a standing quarrel with us ; for we had such
a constant employ that she could have none of her husband's
company; and when she came to call him to dinner she found
him as black as a tinker.
There was an old building, which was formerly hawks' mews.
There we instituted a laboratory. One apartment was for wood
works, and the other for iron. His business was hewing and
framing, and, being permitted to sit, he would labour very hard ;
and, in that manner, he hewed the frames for our necessary
ROGER NORTH.] SIR DUDLEY NORTH. 493
tables. He put them together only with laps and pins; but so,
as served the occasion very well. We got up a table and a bench ;
but the great difficulty was to get bellows and a forge. He hewed
such stones as lay about, and built a hearth with a back, and, by
means of water, and an old iron which he knocked right down,
he perforated that stone for the wind to come in at the fire.
What common tools we wanted we sent and bought, and also a
leather skin, with which he made a pair of bellows that wrought
overhead, and the wind was conveyed by elder-guns let into one
another, and so it got to the fire. Upon finding a piece of an old
anvil, we went to work, and wrought all the iron that was used in
our manufactory. He delighted most in hewing. He allowed
me, being a lawyer, as he said, to be the best forger. We followed
this trade so constantly and close, and he coming out sometimes
with a red short waistcoat, red cap, and black face, the country
people began to talk as if we used some unlawful trades there,
clipping at least; and it might be, coining of money. Upon this
we were forced to call in the blacksmith, and some of the neigh-
bours, that it might be known there was neither damage or danger
to the state by our operations. This was morning's work before
dressing; to which duty we were usually summoned by the lady
full 4>f admiration what creatures she had in her family. In the
afternoons, too, we had employment which was somewhat more
refined ; and that was turning and planing ; for which use we
sequestered a low closet. We had our engines from London,
and many round implements were made.
In our laboratories, it was not a little strange to see with what
earnestness and pains we worked, sweating most immoderately,
and scarce allowing ourselves time to eat. At the lighter works,
in the afternoon, he hath sat, perhaps, scraping a stick, or turn-
ing a piece of wood, and this for many afternoons together, all
the while singing like a cobbler, incomparably better pleased than
he had been* in all the stages of his life before. And it is a
mortifying speculation, that of the different characters of this
man's enjoyments, separated one from the other, and exposed to
494 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
an indifferent choice, there is scarce any one, but this I have here
described, really worth taking up. And yet the slavery of our
nature is such, that this must be despised, and all the rest, with
the attendant evils of vexation, disappointments, dangers, loss of
health, disgraces, envy, and what not of torment, be admitted.
It was well said of the philosopher to Pyrrhus : " What follows
after all your victories? To sit down and make merry. And
cannot you do so now?"
80. — ^bminn m n Jf0resi
SMOLLETT.
HE departed from the village that same afternoon, under the
auspices of his conductor, and found himself benighted in the
midst of a forest, fai from the habitations of men. The darkness
of the night, the silence and solitude of the place, the indistinct
images of the trees that appeared on every side, " stretching their
extravagant arms athwart the gloom," conspired, with the dejec-
tion of spirits occasioned by his loss, to disturb his fancy, and
raise strange phantoms in his imagination. Although he was not
naturally superstitious, his mind began to be invaded with an
awful horror, that gradually prevailed over all the consolations of
reason and philosophy; nor was his heart free from the terrors of
assassination. In order to dissipate these disagreeable reveries,
he had recourse to the conversation of his guide, by whom he was
entertained with the history of divers travellers who had been
robbed and murdered by ruffians, whose retreat was in the re-
cesses of that very wood.
In the midst of this communication, which did not at all tend
to the elevation of our hero's spirits, the conductor made an ex-
cuse for dropping behind, while our traveller jogged on in expec-
tation of being joined again by him in a few minutes. He was,
however, disappointed in that hope; the sound of the other
horse's feet by degrees grew more and more faint, an*d at last alto-
gether died away. Alarmed at this circumstance, Fathom halted
in the middle of the road, and listened with the most fearful atten-
SMOLLETT.] ADVENTURE IN A FOREST. 495
tion ; but his sense of hearing was saluted with nought but the
dismal sighings of the trees, that seemed to foretell an approach-
ing storm. Accordingly, the heavens contracted a more dreary
aspect, the lightning began to gleam, the thunder to roll, and the
tempest, raising its voice to a tremendous roar, descended in a
torrent of rain.
In this emergency, the fortitude of our hero was almost quite
overcome. So many concurring circumstances of danger and
distress might have appalled the most undaunted breast; what
impression, then, must they have made upon the mind of Ferdi-
nand, who was by no means a man to set fear at defiance ! In-
deed, he had well-nigh lost the use of his reflection, and was
actually invaded to the skin, before he could recollect himself so
far as to quit the road, and seek for shelter among the thickets
that surrounded him. Having rode some furlongs into the forest,
he took his station under a tuft of tall trees that screened him
from the storm, and in that situation called a council within him-
self, to deliberate upon his next excursion. He persuaded him-
self that his guide had deserted him for the present, in order to
give intelligence of a traveller to some gang of robbers with whom
he was connected; and that he must of necessity fall a prey to
those banditti, unless he should have the good fortune to elude
their search, and disentangle himself from the mazes of the
wood.
Harrowed with these apprehensions, he resolved to commit
himself to the mercy of the hurricane, as of two evils the least,
and penetrate straight forward through some devious opening, until
he should be delivered from the forest. For this purpose he
turned his horse's head in a line quite contrary to the direction
of the high road which he had left, on the supposition that the
robbers would pursue that track in quest of him, and that they
would never dream of his deserting the highway, to traverse an
unknown forest, amidst the darkness of such a boisterous night.
After he had continued in this progress through a succession of
groves, and bogs, and thorns, and brakes, by which not only his
clothes, but also his skin, suffered in a grievous manner, while
496 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
every nerve quivered with eagerness and dismay, he at length
reached an open plain, and pursuing his course, in full hope of
arriving at some village where his life would be safe, he descried
a rushlight at a distance, which he looked upon as the star of
his good fortune, and, riding towards it at full speed, arrived at
the door of a lone cottage, into which he was admitted by an old
woman, who, understanding he was a bewildered traveller, re-
ceived him with great hospitality.
When he learned from his hostess that there was not another
house within three leagues, that she could accommodate him
with a tolerable bed, and his horse with lodging and oats, he
thanked Heaven for his good fortune, in stumbling upon this
homely habitation, and determined to pass the night under the
protection of the old cottager, who gave him to understand that
her husband, who was a faggot-maker, had gone to the next town
to dispose of his merchandise ; and that, in all probability, he
would not return till next morning, on account of the tempestu-
ous night. Ferdinand sounded the beldame with a thousand
artful interrogations, and she answered with such appearance of
truth and simplicity, that he concluded his person was quite secure,
and, after having been regaled with a dish of eggs and bacon,
desired she would conduct him into the chamber where she pro-
posed he should take his repose. He was accordingly ushered
up by a sort of ladder into an apartment furnished with a standing
bed, and almost half filled with trusses of straw. He seemed ex-
tremely well pleased with his lodging, which in reality exceeded
his expectation : and his kind landlady, cautioning him against
letting the candle approach the combustibles, took her leave, and
locked the door on the outside.
Fathom, whose own principles taught him to be suspicious, and
ever upon his guard against the treachery of his fellow-creatures,
could have dispensed with this instance of her care, in confining
her guest to her chamber, and began to be seized with strange
fancies, when he observed that there was no bolt on the inside of
the door, by which he might secure himself from intrusion. In
consequence of these suggestions, he proposed to take an accu-
SMOILETT.] ADVENTURE IN A FOREST. 497
rate survey of every object in the apartment, and in the course of
his inquiry, had the mortification to find the dead body of a man,
still warm, who had been lately stabbed, and concealed beneath
several bundles of straw.
Such a discovery could not fail to fill the breast of our hero with
unspeakable horror; for he concluded that he himself would un-
dergo the same fate before morning, without the interposition of
a miracle in his favour. In the first transports of his dread, he
ran to the window, with a view to escape by that outlet, and
found his flight effectually obstructed by divers strong bars of
iron. Then his heart began to palpitate, his hair to bristle up,
and his knees to totter; his thoughts teemed with passages of
death and destruction ; his conscience rose up in judgment against
him, and he underwent a severe paroxysm of dismay and distrac-
tion. His spirits were agitated into a state of fermentation, that
produced a species of resolution akin to that which is inspired by
brandy or other strong liquors, and, by an impulse that seemed
supernatural, he was immediately hurried into measures for his
own preservation.
What upon a less interesting occasion his imagination durst not
propose, he now executed without scruple or remorse. He un-
dressed the corpse that lay bleeding among the straw, and, con-
veying it to the bed in his arms, deposited it in the attitude of a
person who sleeps at his ease ; then he extinguished the light,
took possession of the place from whence the body had been re-
moved, and, holding a pistol ready cocked in each hand, waited
for the sequel with that determined purpose which is often the
immediate production of despair. About midnight he heard the
sound of feet ascending the ladder; the door was softly opened;
he saw the shadow of two men stalking towards the bed, a dark
lanthorn being unshrouded, directed their aim to the supposed
sleeper, and he that held it thrust a poniard to his heart; the
force of the blow made a compression on the chest, and a sort of
groan issued from the windpipe of the defunct; the stroke was
repeated, without producing a repetition of the note, so that the
assassins concluded the work was effectually done, and retired for
VOL. i. 21
498 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
the present with a design to return and rifle the deceased at their
leisure.
Never had our hero spent a moment in such agony as he felt
during this operation ; the whole surface of his body was covered
with a cold sweat, and his nerves were relaxed with a universal
palsy. In short, he remained in a trance that, in all probability,
contributed to his safety; for, had he retained the use of his
senses, he might have been discovered by the transports of his
fear. The first use he made of his retrieved recollection was to
perceive that the assassins had left the door open in their retreat,
and he would have instantly availed himself of this their neglect,
by sallying out upon them at the hazard of his life, had he not
been restrained by a conversation he overheard in the room be-
low, importing that the ruffians were going to set out upon another
expedition, in hopes of finding more prey. They accordingly de-
parted, after having laid strong injunctions upon the old woman
to keep the door fast locked during their absence ; and Ferdinand
took his resolution without further delay. So soon as, by his
conjecture, the robbers were at a sufficient distance from the
house, he rose from his lurking-place, moved softly towards the
bed, and rummaging the pockets of the deceased, found a purse
well stored with ducats, of which, together with a silver watch
and a diamond ring, he immediately possessed himself without
scruple; then, descending with great care and circumspection into
the lower apartment, stood before the old beldame, before she
had the least intimation of his approach.
Accustomed as she was to the trade of blood, the hoary hag
did not behold this apparition without giving signs of infinite
terror and astonishment, believing it was no other than the spirit
of her second guest, who had been murdered ; she fell upon her
knees, and began to recommend herself, to the protection of the
saints, crossing herself with as much devotion as if she had been
entitled to the particular care and attention of Heaven. Nor did
her anxiety abate, when she was undeceived in this her supposi-
tion, and understood it was no phantom, but the real substance
of the stranger, who, without staying to upbraid her with the
SMOLLETT.] ADVENTURE IN A FOREST. 499
enormity of her crimes, commanded her, on pain of immediate
death, to produce his horse, to which being conducted, he set her
upon the saddle without delay, and, mounting behind, invested
her with the management of the regns, swearing, in a most
peremptory tone, that the only chance she had for her life was in
directing him safely to the next town; and that, so soon as she
should give him the least cause to doubt her fidelity in the per-
formance of that task, he would on the instant act the part of her
executioner.
This declaration had its effects upon the withered Hecate, who,
with many supplications for mercy and forgiveness, promised to
guide him in safety to a certain village at the distance of two
leagues, where he might lodge in security, and be provided with
a fresh horse, or other convenience, for pursuing his intended
route. On these conditions he told her she might deserve his
clemency; and they accordingly took their departure together,
she being placed astride upon the saddle, holding the bridle in
one hand, and a switch in the other , and our adventurer sitting
on the crupper, superintending her conduct, and keeping the
muzzle of a pistol close at her ear. In this equipage they travelled
across part of the same wood in which his guide had forsaken
him; and it is not to be supposed that he passed his time in the
most agreeable reverie, while he found himself involved in the
labyrinth of those shades, which he considered as the haunts of
robbery and assassination.
Common fear was a comfortable sensation to what he felt in
this excursion. The first steps he had taken for his preservation
were the effects of mere instinct, while his faculties were extin-
guished or suppressed by despair : but now, as his reflection began
to recur, he was haunted by the most intolerable apprehensions.
Every whisper of the wind through the thickets was swelled into
the hoarse menaces of murder, the shaking of the boughs was
construed into the brandishing of poniards, and every shadow of
a tree became the apparition of a ruffian eager for blood. In
short, at each of these occurrences he felt what was infinitely more
tormenting than the stab of a real dagger ; and, at every fresh
500 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [SMOLLETT.
fillip of his fear, he acted as a remembrancer to his conductress,
in a new volley of imprecations, importing that her life was abso-
lutely connected with his opinion of his own safety.
Human nature could not longer subsist under such complicated
terror. At last he found himself clear of the forest, and was
blessed with the distant view of an inhabited place. He then
began to exercise his thoughts upon a new subject. He debated
with himself, whether he- should make a parade of his intrepidity
and public spirit, by disclosing his achievement, and surrendering
his guide to the penalty of the law ; or leave the old hag and her
accomplices to the remorse of their own consciences, and proceed
quietly on his journey to Paris in undisturbed possession of the
prize he had already obtained. This last step he determined to
take, upon recollecting that, in the course of his information, the
story of the murdered stranger would infallibly attract the atten-
tion of justice, and in that case, the effects he had borrowed from
the defunct must be refunded for the benefit of those who had a
right to the succession. This was an argument which our adven-
turer could not resist ; he foresaw that he should be stripped of
his acquisition, which he looked upon as the fair fruits of his valour
and sagacity; and, moreover, be detained as an evidence against
the robbers, to the manifest detriment of his affairs. Perhaps,
too, he had motives of conscience, that dissuaded him from bear-
ing witness against a set of people whose principles did not much
differ from his own.
Influenced by such considerations, he yielded to the first im-
portunity of the beldame, whom he dismissed at a very small dis-
tance from the village, after he had earnestly exhorted her to quit
such an atrocious course of life, and atone for her past crimes, by
sacrificing her associates to the demands of justice. She did not
fail to vow a perfect reformation, and to prostrate herself before
him for the favour she had found ; then she betook herself to her
habitation, with full purpose of advising her fellow murderers to
repair with all despatch to the village, and impeach our hero, who,
wisely distrusting her professions, stayed no longer in the place
than to hire a guide for the next stage, which brought him to the
city of Chalons-sur-Marne.
DEKKER.] SCENE FROM OLD FOR TUNA TUS. 501
81.— Smu fr0m ©fir Jfortemtes.
DEKKER.
[THOMAS DEKKER, or DECKER, was one of the numerous band of dramatists
that belong to the Shakespearian era. The exact time of his birth and death is
not known. Between Dekker and Ben Jonson there was a fearful feud, and
they each satirised the other on the public stage. There is much vigour and
dramatic force, with, occasionally, very beautiful poetry, in many of Dekker' s
plays. Like several of his contemporary dramatists he wrote many plays in
union with other writers. The drama of " Old Fortunatus " is founded upon
the story of Fortunatus's purse ; — it is very extravagant in parts ; but the open-
ing scene is a favourable specimen of the author's power. It commences with
the entrance of a Gardener, a Smith, a Monk, a Shepherd, all crowned ; a
Nymph, with a Globe, another with Fortune's Wheel, then Fortune : after
her four Kings with broken Crowns and Sceptres, chained in Silver Gyves,
and led by her. The first four come out singing ; the four Kings lie down at
the feet of Fortune, who treads on their Bodies as she ascends her Chair.
After the Kings have uttered laments of her cruelty, and the others have
celebrated her might, she selects Fortunatus as the object of her capricious
bounty.]
for. Thou shalt be one of Fortune's minions;
Six gifts I spend upon mortality,
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches;
Out of my bounty, one of these is thine,
Choose, then, which likes thee best.
Fort. Oh, most divine !
Give me but leave to borrow wonder's eye,
To look, amazed, at thy bright majesty.
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches ]
For. Before thy soul (at this deep lottery)
Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny ;
Know that here 's no recanting a first choice ;
Choose then discreetly (for the laws of Fate
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate.)
Fort. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night,
Most righteous Parcae, guide my genius right !
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches?
502 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. DEKKER.
For. Stay, Fortunatus, once more hear me speak;
If thou kiss wisdom's cheek and make her thine,
She '11 breathe into thy lips divinity,
And thou, like Phoebus, shalt speak oracle ;
Thy heaven-inspired soul, on wisdom's wings,
Shall fly up to the parliament of Jove,
And read the statutes of eternity,
And see what's past, and learn what is to come:
If thou lay claim to strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown ; as kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery:
Make health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof,
'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting ;
Be ever merry, ever revelling :
Wish but for beauty, and within thine eyes
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,
And on thy cheeks I '11 mix such white and red,
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede,
And with immortal hands shall circle thee :
Are thy desires long life ? thy vital thread
Shall be stretch'd out ; thou shalt behold the change
Of monarchies ; and see those children die
Whose great-great grandsires now in cradles lie :
If through gold's sacred * hunger thou dost pine ;
Those gilded wantons, which in swarms do run
To warm their slender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles,
Which in rich piles shall swell before thy feet ;
As those are, so shall these be infinite.
Awaken then thy soul's best faculties,
And gladly kiss this bounteous hand of Fate,
Which strives to bless thy name of Fortunate.
Kings. Old man, take heed ! her smiles will murder thee.
The others. Old man, she ;11 crown thee with felicity.
Fort. Oh, whither am I wrapt beyond myself?
* Sacra is used in the sense of the " A uri sacra fames" of Virgil.
DEKKER.] SCENE FROM OLD FORTUNATUS. 503
More violent conflicts fight in every thought,
Than his, whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought
Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love ?
Then I lose riches ; and a wise man, poor,
Is like a sacred book that's never read,
To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,
Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school.
I will be strong : then I refuse long life ;
And though mine arm shall conquer twenty worlds,
There 's a lean fellow beats all conquerors :
The greatest strength expires with loss of breath,
The mightiest (in one minute) stoop to death.
Then take long life, or health ; should I do so,
I might grow ugly; and that tedious scroll
Of months and years much misery may inroll ;
Therefore I '11 beg for beauty ; yet I will not :
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul.
The wisdom of this world is idiotism ;
Strength a weak reed ; health sickness' enemy,
(And it at length will have the victory ;)
Beauty is but a painting ; and long life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious, and full of tribulation,
Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich ;
{Kneels down.
My choice is store of gold ; the rich are wise :
He that upon his back rich garments wears
Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears :
Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world ;
The health, the soul, the beauty most divine ;
A mask of gold hides all deformities :
Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative ;
Oh, therefore make me rich ! not as the wretch
That only serves lean banquets to his eye,
504 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. |THACKERAY.
Has gold, yet starves ; is famished in his store ;
No, let me ever spend, be never poor.
For. Thy latest words confine thy destiny ;
Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor :
For proof receive this purse ; with it this virtue ;
Still when thou thrust'st thy hand into the same,
Thou shalt draw forth ten pieces of bright gold,
Current in any realm where then thou breathest ;
If thou canst dribble out the sea by drops,
Then shalt thou want ; but that can ne'er be done,
Nor this grow empty.
Fort. Thanks, great deity!
For. The virtue ends when thou and thy sons end.
This path leads thee to Cyprus, get thee hence :
Farewell, vain covetous fool, thou wilt repent
That for the love of dross thou hast despised
Wisdom's divine embrace ; she would have borne thee
On the rich wings of immortality ;
But now go dwell with cares, and quickly die.
82.— &&* §*s
THACKERAY.
[!T is remarkable how, within the last quarter of a century, the novel has
been the principal reflector of manners — how the players have, to a great ex-
tent, foregone their function of being " the abstracts and brief chronicles of the
time." It was not so when Fielding and Smollett held "the mirror up to
nature " in the modern form of fiction, whilst Goldsmith and Sheridan took
the more ancient dramatic method of dealing with humours and fashions.
The stage has still its sparkling writers — England is perhaps richer in the
laughing satire and fun of journalism than at any period ; but the novel, especi-
ally in that cheap issue which finds its entrance to thousands of households,
furnishes the chief material from which the future philosophical historian will
learn what were our modes of thought and of living — our vices and our follies
—our pretensions and our realities — in the middle of the nineteenth century.
The fashionable novel, as it was called, has had its day j writers have found
out that they must deal with "mankind," and not with coteries. "Amongst
THACKERAY.] THE BEST ENGLISH PEOPLE. 505
the most successful of all those who have come after Mr Dickens — not as an
imitator, but in a truly original vein — is William Makepeace Thackeray. His
"Vanity Fair," from which we extract a somewhat isolated portion, is a
masterly production — the work of an acute observer — sound in principle,
manly in its contempt of the miserable conventionalities that make our social
life such a cold and barren thing for too many. Never was the absurd desire
for display, which is the bane of so much real happiness, better exposed than
in the writings of Mr Thackeray. He is the very antagonism of that heartless
pretence to exclusiveness and gentility which acquired for its advocates and
its expositors the name of " the silver-fork school." Such authors as this pro-
duce incalculable benefit, and will do much to bring us back to that old Eng-
lish simplicity — the parent of real taste and refinement — which sees nothing
truly to be ashamed of but profligacy and meanness. Thackeray was born at
Calcutta in 1811. He died Dec. 24, 1863.
His serial, "The History of Pendennis," was begun in 1848. "The His-
tory of Henry Esmond, Esq., written by himself," was published in 1852.
"The Newcomes" in 1855. " The Virginians " was finished in 1859. His
"Adventures of Philip on His Way Through the World" was his last great
novel. At the time of his death he was proceeding with another in the " Corn-
hill Magazine," which promised to have a new interest in its sketches of the
smuggling traffic that was carried on in the days of high duties and protection.]
Before long, Beckey received not only " the best " foreigners,
(as the phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang,) but
some of the best English people too. I don't mean the most
virtuous, or indeed the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the
stupidest, or the richest, or the best born, but " the best," — in a
word, people about whom there is no question, — such as the great
Lady Fitz- Willis, that patron saint of Almack's, the great Lady
Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth, (she was Lady G.
Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry,) and the like. When
the Countess of Fitz- Willis (her ladyship is of the King Street
family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or she is
safe. There is no question about them any more. Not that my
Lady Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the
contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and neither
handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining ; but it is agreed on all
sides that she is of the "best people." Those who go to her are
of the best; and from an old grudge, probably to Lady Steyne,
(for whose coronet her ladyship, then the youthful Georgina
506 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [THACKERAY.
Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl
of Portansherry, had once tried,) this great and famous leader of
the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs Rawdon Crawley: made
her a most marked curtsey at the assembly over which she pre-
sided, and not only encouraged her son, St Kitts, (his lordship
got his place through Lord Steyne's interest,) to frequent Mr
Crawley's house, but asked her to her own mansion, and spoke
to her twice in the most public and condescending manner during
dinner. The important fact was known all over London that
night People who had been crying fie about Mrs Crawley were
silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne's right-hand
man, went about everywhere praising her : some, who had hesi-
tated, came forward at once and welcomed her. Little Tom
Toady, who had warned Southdown about visiting such an aban-
doned woman, now besought to be introduced to her. In a
word, she was admitted to be among the " best " people. Ah,
my beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Beckey pre-
maturely— glory like this is said to be fugitive. It is currently
reported that even in the very inmost circles they are no happier
than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Beckey, who
penetrated into the very centre of fashion, and saw the great
George IV. face to face, has owned since that there too was vanity.
We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career.
As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I
have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug; so an uninitiated man
cannot take upon himself to portray the great world accurately,
and had best keep his opinions to himself, whatever they are.
Beckey has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of
her life, when she moved among the very greatest circles of the
London fashion. Her success excited, elated, and then bored
her. At first no occupation was more pleasant than to invent
and procure, (the latter a work of no small trouble and ingenuity,
by the way, in a person of Mrs Rawdon Crawley's very narrow
means) — to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and orna-
ments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she was welcomed
by great people; and from the fine dinner parties to fine assem-
THACKERAY.] THE BEST ENGLISH PEOPLE. 507
blies, whither the same people came with whom she had been
dining, whom she had met the night before, and would see on the
morrow — the young men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cra-
vatted, with the neatest glossy boots and white gloves — the elders
portly, brass buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy — the
young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink — the mothers grand,
beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in diamonds. They talked in
English, not in bad French, as they do in the novels. They
talked about each other's houses, and characters, and families,
just as the Joneses do about the Smiths. Beckey's former ac-
quaintances hated and envied her: the poor woman herself was
yawning in spirit. " I wish I were out of it," she said to herself.
" I would rather be a parson's wife, and teach a Sunday school,
than this ; or a sergeant's lady, and ride in the regimental waggon ;
or, oh, how much gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers,
and dance before a booth at a fair."
"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She
used to tell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her art-
less way — they amused him.
" Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer — master of the
ceremonies — what do you call him — the man in the large boots
and the uniform, who goes round the ring cracking the whip 1
He is large, heavy, and of a military figure. I recollect," Beckey
continued, pensively, " my father took me to see a show at Brook
Green Fair, when I was a child, and when we came home I made
myself a pair of stilts, and danced in the studio, to the wonder of
all the pupils."
" I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.
" I should like to do it now," Beckey continued. "How Lady
Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would
stare! Hush, silence! there is Pasta beginning to sing." Beckey
always made a point of being conspicuously polite to the profes-
sional ladies and gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic
parties — of following them into the corners, where they sat in
silence, and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of
all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very truly.
508 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [THACKERAY.
There was a frankness and humility in the manner in which she
acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or amused
lookers-on, as the case might be. " How cool that woman is,"
said one; "what airs of independence she assumes, where she
ought to sit still, and be thankful if anybody speaks to her."
" What an honest and good-natured soul she is," said another.
" What an artful little minx," said a third. They were all right,
very likely; but Beckey went her own way, and so fascinated the
professional personages, that they would leave off their sore
throats in order to sing at her parties, and give her lessons for
nothing.
Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street.
Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the
street, to the disgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the
thunder of the knocking, and of 102, who could not sleep for
envy. The gigantic footmen who accompanied the vehicles were
too big to be contained in Beckey's little hall, and were billeted
off in the neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were
wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer. Some of the
great dandies of London squeezed and trod on each other on the
little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless
and severe ladies of ton were seated in a little drawing-room,
listening to the professional singers, who were singing according
to their wont, and as if they wished to blow the windows down.
And the day after there appeared, among the fashionable re-
unions in the "Morning Post," a paragraph to the following
effect:—
"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs Crawley entertained a select
party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their Excellences
the Prince and Princess of Peterwarachin, H.E., Papoosh Pasha,
the Turkish Ambassador, (attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of
the mission,) the Marquess of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Mr
Pitt, and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr Wag, &c. After dinner Mrs
Crawley had an assembly, which was attended by the Duchess
(Dowager) of Stilton, Due de la Gruyere, Marchioness of Che-
shire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron
THACKERAY.] THE BEST ENGLISH PEOPLE. 509
Schapzuger, Chevalier Tasti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady
F. Macadam, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2)
Misses Macbeth, Viscount Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon.
Sands Bedwin, Bobbachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the
reader may fill at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of
small type.
• ••••••
How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the
entertainments with which they treated the polite world was a
mystery which gave rise to some conversation at the time, and
probably added zest to these little festivities. Some persons
averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome allow-
ance ; if he did, Beckey's power over the baronet must have been
extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his
advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Beckey's habit
to levy contributions on all her husband's friends : going to this
one in tears with an account that there was an execution in the
house ; falling on her knees to that one, and declaring that the
whole family must go to gaol, or commit suicide, unless such and
such a bill could be paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been
induced to give many hundreds through these pathetic representa-
tions. Young Feltham, of the — th Dragoons, (and son of the
firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers,)
and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable life, was also
cited as one of Beckey's victims in the pecuniary way. People
declared that she got money from various simply disposed persons,
under pretence of getting them confidential appointments under
Government. Who knows what stories were or were not told of
our dear and innocent friend ? Certain it is, that if she had had
all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed,
or stolen, she might have capitalised, and been honest for life,
whereas — but this is advancing matters.
The truth is, that by economy and good management — by a
sparing use of ready money, and by paying scarcely anybody —
people can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with
very little means : -and it is our belief that Beckey's much-talked-
$10 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CAVENDISH.
of parties, which were not, after all was said, very numerous, cost
this lady very little more than the wax candles which lighted the
walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game
and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her dis-
posal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cook presided over
her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies
from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the world to
abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Beckey, and
I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against
her. If every person is to be banished from society who runs
into debt and cannot pay — if we are to be peering into every-
body's private life, speculating upon their income, and cutting
them if we don't approve of their expenditure — why, what a
howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would
be. Every man's hand would be against his neighbour in this
case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilisation would be done
away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one
another. Our houses would become caverns : and we should go
in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down.
Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen of the
town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights, comestibles, rouge,
crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louis-quatorze gimcracks,
and old china, park hacks, and splendid high-stepping carriage
horses — all the delights of life, I say, would go to the deuce, if
people did but act upon their silly principles, and avoid those
whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and
mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough :
we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the great-
est rascal unhung — but do we wish to hang him therefore ? No ;
we shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good, we forgive
him, and go and dine with him ; and we expect he will do the
same by us. Thus trade flourishes — civilisation advances ; peace
is kept ; new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week ;
and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest
proprietor who reared it.
CAVENDISH.] DEA TH OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 511
83.— gjeaijjr of
CAVENDISH.
[AMONGST the earliest memoirs on English History, and certainly far
exceeding most memoirs in interest and importance, is "The Life of Wolsey,
by George Cavendish, his Gentleman Usher." It was long a question who
wrote this remarkable book ; but the doubt was satisfactorily cleared up by
Mr Hunter, who found that it was written by the brother of Sir William
Cavendish, a faithful follower of the great Cardinal. There are ten MSS. in
existence of this ancient work ; but it has been very carefully edited by Mr
Singer. We confine our extracts to those striking passages which relate to
the death of the great Cardinal.]
Wolsey had been dismissed from court, and had retired to his
palace at Cawood, previous to his installation at York as Arch-
bishop. He was suddenly arrested on a charge of high treason,
by the Earl of Northumberland, and was forced to set out for the
metropolis. Very soon the Cardinal fell ill ; and it is evident,
from the cautions observed, that those about him suspected that
he intended to poison himself. Ill as he was, the Earl of Shrews-
bury put the fallen man under the charge of Sir William Kingston,
the lieutenant of the Tower, whom the king had sent for the
Cardinal, with twenty-four of his guard ; and with this escort he
departed on his last journey. "And the next day he took his
journey with Master Kingston and the guard. And as soon as
they espied their old master in such a lamentable estate, they
lamented him with weeping eyes. Whom my lord took by the
hands, and divers times, by the way, as he rode, he would talk
with them, sometime with one, and sometime with another ; at
night he was lodged at a house of the Earl of Shrewsbury's, called
Hardwick Hall,* very evil at ease. The next day he rode to Not-
tingham, and there lodged that night, more sicker, and the next
day he rode to Leicester Abbey ; and by the way he waxed so
sick that he was divers times likely to have fallen from his mule,
and being night before we came to the Abbey of Leicester, where
at his coming in at the gates, the Abbot of the place, with all his
* Not the Hardwick of Derbyshire, but of Nottinghamshire.
512 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CAVENDISH.
convent, met him with the light of many torches j and whom they
right honourably received with great reverence. To whom my
lord said, ' Father Abbot, I am come hither to leave my bones
among you ;' whom they brought on his mule to the stairs' foot of
his chamber, and there alighted, and Master Kingston then took
him by the arm, and led him up the stairs ; who told me afterwards
that he never carried so heavy a burden in all his life. And as soon
as he was in his chamber, he went incontinent to his bed, very
sick. This was upon Saturday at night ; and there he continued
sicker and sicker.
" Upon Monday in the morning, as I stood by his bedside,
about eight of the clock, the windows being close shut, having
wax-lights burning upon the cupboard, I beheld himi as me
seemed, drawing fast to his end. He, perceiving my shadow upon
the wall by his bedside, asked who was there : ' Sir, I am here,'
quoth I ; ' How do you1?' quoth he to me : ' Very well, sir,' quoth
I, 'if I might see your grace well:' 'What is it of the clock1?'
said he to me : ' Forsooth, sir,' said I, l it is past eight of the clock
in the morning/ 'Eight of the clock?' quoth he: 'that cannot
be ;' rehearsing divers times ' Eight of the clock, eight of the
clock. Nay, nay,' quoth he at last, ' it cannot be eight of the
clock : for by eight of the clock ye shall lose your master ; for my
time draweth near that I must depart out of this world.'"
The rapacity of the king is strikingly exhibited in the follow-
ing passage : " And after dinner, Master Kingston called for me
(Cavendish) into his chamber, and at my being there, said to me,
' So it is that the king hath sent me letters by this gentleman,
Master Vincent, one of your old companions, who hath been of
late in trouble in the Tower of London for money that my lord
should have at his last departing from him, which now cannot be
found. Wherefore the king, at this gentleman's request, for the
declaration of his truth, hath sent him hither with his grace's
letters directed unto me, commanding me by virtue thereof to
examine my lord in that behalf, and to have your council herein,
how it may be done, that he may take it well and in good part.
This is the chief cause of my sending for you; therefore I pray
CAVENDISH.] DEATH OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 513
you what is your best counsel to use in this matter for the true
acquittal of this gentleman?' 'Sir,' quoth I, 'as touching that
matter, my simple advice shall be this, that your own person shall
resort unto him and visit him, arid in communication break the
matter unto him ; and if he will not tell the truth, there be that
can satisfy the king's pleasure therein; and in any wise speak
nothing of my fellow Vincent. And I would not advise you to
tract the time with him : for he is very sick, and I fear me he will
not live past to-morrow in the morning.' Then went Master
Kingston unto him, and asked first how he did, and so proceeded
in communication, wherein Master Kingston demanded of him
the said money, saying, ' That my lord of Northumberland hath
found a book at Cawood that reporteth how ye had but fifteen
hundred pounds in ready money, and one penny thereof will not
be found, who hath made the king privy by his letters thereof.
Wherefore the king hath written unto me, to demand of you if
you know where it is become ; for it were pity that it should be
embezzled from you both. Therefore, I shall require you, in the
king's name, to tell me the truth herein, to the intent that I may
make just report unto his majesty what answer ye make therein.'
With that my lord paused awhile, and said, f Ah, good lord! how
much doth it grieve me that the king should think in me such
deceit, wherein I should deceive him of any one penny that I
have. Rather than I would, Master Kingston, embezzle or de-
ceive him of a mite, I would it were moult, and put in my mouth;'
which words he spake twice or thrice very vehemently. * I have
nothing, ne never had, (God being my judge,) that I esteemed, or
had in it any such delight or pleasure, but that I took it for the
king's goods, having but the bare use of the same during my life,
and after my death to leave it to the king; wherein he hath but
prevented my intent and purpose. And for this money that ye
demand of me, I assure you it is none of mine; for I borrowed it
of divers of my friends to bury me, and to bestow among my
servants, who have taken great pains about me, like true and
faithful men. Notwithstanding, if it be his pleasure to take this
money from me, I must hold me therewith content. Yet I would
VOL. I. 2 K
514 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CAVENDISH.
most humbly beseech his majesty to see them satisfied, of whom
I borrowed the same for the discharge of my conscience.' . . .
1 Sir/ quoth Master Kingston, ' there is no doubt in the king; ye
need not to mistrust that, but when the king shall be advertised
thereof, to whom I shall make report of your request, that his
grace will do as shall become him. But, sir, I pray you, where is
this money?' 'Master Kingston/ quoth he, ' I will not conceal
it from the king; I will declare it to you (ere) I die, by the grace
of God. Take a little patience with me, I pray you.' ' Well, sir,
then will I trouble you no more at this time, trusting that ye will
show me to-morrow.'
" Howbeit my lord waxed very sick, most likeliest to die that
night, and often swooned, and, as me thought, drew fast toward
his end, until it was four of the clock in the morning, at which
time, I asked him how he did : * Well/ quoth he, ' if I had any
meat; I pray you give me some.' ' Sir, there is none ready/ said
I. ' I wis/ quoth he, ' ye be the more to blame, for you should
have always some meat for me in a readiness, to eat when my
stomach serveth me; therefore I pray you get me some; for I in-
tend this day, God willing, to make me strong, to the intent I may
occupy myself in confession, and make me ready to God.' The
dying man ate a spoonful or two. Then was he in confession the
space of an hour. And when he had ended his confession, Master
Kingston bade him good-morrow, (for it was seven of the clock in
the morning,) and asked him how he did. ' Sir/ quoth he, ' I
tarry but the will and pleasure of God, to render unto Him my
simple soul into His divine hands/ ' Not yet so, sir/ quoth Master
Kingston, 'with the grace of God, ye shall live, and do very
well, if ye will be of good cheer/ ' Master Kingston, my disease
is such, that I cannot live ; I have had some experience in my
disease, and thus it is : I have a flux, with a continual fever ; the
nature whereof is this : that if there be no alteration with me of
the same within eight days, then must either ensue excoriation of
the entrails, or frenzy, or else present death ; and the best thereof
is death. And as I suppose, this is the eighth day ; and if ye see
in me no alteration, then is there no remedy, (although I may live
CAVENDISH.! DEATH OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 515
a day or twain,) but death which is the best remedy of the three/
' Nay, sir, in good faith/ quoth Master Kingston, * you be in such
dolor and pensiveness, doubting that thing that indeed ye need
not to fear, which maketh you much worse than ye should be.'
' Well, well, Master Kingston,' quoth he, * I see the matter against
me how it is framed ; but if I had served God as diligently as I
have done the king, He would not have given me over in my gray
hairs. Howbeit this is the just reward that I must receive for
my worldly diligence and pains that I may have had to do him
service ; only to satisfy his vain pleasure, not regarding my godly
duty. Wherefore I pray you, with all my heart, to have me most
humbly commended unto his royal majesty ; beseeching him in
my behalf to call to his most gracious remembrance all matters
proceeding between him and me, from the beginning of the world
unto this day, and the progress of the same : and most chiefly in
the weighty matter yet depending, (meaning the matter newly
began between him and the good Queen Katherine,) then shall
his conscience declare whether I have offended him or no. He
is sure a prince of royal courage, and hath a princely heart ; and
rather than he will either miss or want any part of his will or
appetite, he will put the loss of one-half of his realm in danger.
For I assure you, I have often kneeled before him in his privy
chamber on my knees, the space of an hour or two, to persuade
him from his will and appetite, but I could never bring to pass to
dissuade him therefrom. Therefore, Master Kingston, if it chance
hereafter you to be one of his privy council, as for your wisdom
and other qualities ye are meet to be, I warn you to be well advised
and assured what matter ye put in his head, for ye shall never put
it out again.'"
The narrative then goes on to exhibit a long speech of the
Cardinal's against " this new pernicious sect of Lutherans." At
last Wolsey said : " ' Master Kingston, farewell ; I can no more,
but wish all things to have good success. My time draweth on
fast I may not tarry with you. And forget not, I pray you, what
I have said and charged you withal : for when I am dead, ye shall
peradventure remember my words much better.' And even with
5 1 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [LEIGH HUNT.
these words he began to draw his speech at length, and his tongue
to fail ; his eyes being set in his head, whose sight failed him.
Then we began to put him in remembrance of Christ's passion ;
and sent for the abbot of the place to anneal him, who came with
all speed and ministered unto him all the service to the same be-
longing : and caused also the guard to stand by, both to hear him
talk before his death, and also to witness of the same ; and in-
continent the clock struck eight, at which time he gave up the
ghost, and thus departed he this present life. And calling to our
remembrance his words the day before, how he said that at eight
of the clock we should lose our master, one of us looking upon
another, supposing that he prophesied of his departure.
" Here is the end and fall of pride and arrogancy of such men,
exalted by fortune to honours and high dignities ; for I assure
you, in his time of authority and glory, he was then the haughtiest
man in all his proceedings that then lived, having more respect to
the worldly honour of his person than he had to his spiritual pro-
fession ; wherein should be all meekness, humility, and charity;
the process whereof I leave to them that be learned and seen in
divine laws."
84.—
LEIGH HUNT.
[LEIGH HUNT, one of the most original and fascinating of English prose
writers — one, also, who has won an enduring station amongst English poets,
was the son of a West Indian who came to England and took orders in the
Church. He was born in 1 784, and was educated at Christ's Hospital. As
early as 1805 he was a writer of theatrical criticism in his brother's paper,
"The News;" — in 1808 the brothers established "The Examiner" — a weekly
paper which surpassed all its then contemporaries in ability and taste. In
those days it was almost impossible for a public writer to speak out ; and Leigh
Hunt had to expiate a sarcasm upon the Prince Regent by two years' imprison*
ment. Mr Hunt's subsequent connexion with Lord Byron was not a fortunate
one ; and we are inclined to think that in future literary history most honest
sympathies will be with the plebeian asserting his independence as a brother in
letters, instead of with the patrician, — heartless and insolent, — a declaimer for
liberty but in practice a tyrant. Leigh Hunt died August 28, 1859. The
LEIGH HUNT.] WHA T IS POETR Yt 517
following extract is from a delightful volume, published in 1847, entitled " Se-
lections from the English Poets — Imagination and Fancy."]
If a young reader should ask, after all, What is the best way of
knowing bad poets from good, the best poets from the next best,
and so on? the answer is, the only and twofold way; first, the
perusal of the best poets with the greatest attention ; and second,
the cultivation of that love of truth and beauty which made them
what they are. Every true reader of poetry partakes a more than
ordinary portion of the poetic nature ; and no one can be com-
pletely such, who does not love, or take an interest in everything
that interests the poet, from the firmament to the daisy — from the
highest heart of man, to the most pitiable of the low. It is a
good practice to read with pen in hand, marking what is liked or
doubted. It rivets the attention, realises the greatest amount of
enjoyment, and facilitates reference. It enables the reader also,
from time to time, to see what progress he makes with his own
mind, and how it grows up to the stature of its exalter.
If the same person should ask, What class of poetry is the
highest? I should say, undoubtedly, the Epic ; for it includes the
drama, with narration besides; or the speaking and action of the
characters, with the speaking of the poet himself, whose utmost
address is taxed to relate all well for so long a time, particularly
in the passages least sustained by enthusiasm. Whether this class
has included the greatest poet, is another question still under
trial ; for Shakspeare perplexes all such verdicts, even when the
claimant is Homer ; though if a judgment may be drawn from
his early narratives, ("Venus and Adonis," and the "Rape of
Lucrece,") it is to be doubted whether even Shakspeare could have
told a story like Homer, owing to that incessant activity and su-
perfoetation of thought, a little less of which might be occasionally
desired even in his plays ; — if it were possible, once possessing
anything of his, to wish it away. Next to Homer and Shakspeare
come such narrators as the less universal but intenser Dante;
Milton, with his dignified imagination ; the universal profoundly
simple Chaucer ; and luxuriant remote Spenser — immortal child
518 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LEIGH HUNT.
in poetry's most poetic solitudes: then the great second-rate
dramatists ; unless those who are better acquainted with Greek
tragedy than I am, demand a place for them before Chaucer:
then the airy yet robust universality of Ariosto ; the hearty out-of-
door nature of Theocritus, also a universalist ; the finest lyrical
poets, (who only take short flights, compared with the narrators ; )
the purely contemplative poets who have more thought than
feeling; the descriptive, satirical, didactic, epigrammatic. It is
to be borne in mind, however, that the first poet of an inferior
class may be superior to followers in the train of a higher one,
though the superiority is by no means to be taken for granted ;
otherwise Pope would be superior to Fletcher, and Butler to Pope.
Imagination, teeming with action and character, makes the greatest
poets ; feeling and thought the next ; fancy (by itself) the next ;
wit the last. Thought by itself makes no poet at all ; for the
mere conclusions of the understanding can at best be only so
many intellectual matters of fact. Feeling, even destitute of con-
scious thought, stands a far better poetical chance ; feeling being
a sort of thought without the process of thinking — a grasper of
the truth without seeing it. And what is very remarkable, feeling
seldom makes the blunders that thought does. An idle distinc-
tion has been made between taste and judgment. Taste is the
very maker of judgment. Put an artificial fruit in your mouth,
or only handle it, and you will soon perceive the difference be-
tween judging from taste or tact, and judging from the abstract
figment called judgment. The latter does but throw you into
guesses and doubts. Hence the conceits that astonish us in the
gravest and even subtlest thinkers, whose taste is not proportionate
to their mental perceptions ; men like Donne, for instance ; who,
apart from accidental personal impressions, seem to look at no-
thing as it really is, but only as to what may be thought of it.
Hence, on the other hand, the delightfulness of those poets who
never violate truth of feeling, whether in things real or imaginary;
who are always consistent with their object and its requirements;
and who run the great round of nature, not to perplex and be
perplexed, but to make themselves and us happy. And, luckily,
LEIGH HUNT.] WHA T IS POE TRYt 519
delightfulness is not incompatible with greatness, willing soever as
men may be in their present imperfect state to set the power to
subjugate above the power to please. Truth, of any kind whatso-
ever, makes great writing. This is the reason why such poets as
Ariosto, though not writing with a constant detail of thought and
feeling like Dante, are justly considered great as well as delightful.
Their greatness proves itself by the same truth of nature, and sus-
tained power, though in a different way. Their action is not so
crowded and weighty; their sphere has more territories less fertile;
but it has enchantments of its own which excess of thought would
spoil — luxuries, laughing graces, animal spirits; and not to recog-
nise the beauty and greatness of these, treated as they treat them,
is simply to be defective in sympathy. Every planet is not Mars
or Saturn. There is also Venus and Mercury. There is one
genius of the south, and another of the north, and others uniting
both. The reader who is too thoughtless or too sensitive to like
intensity of any sort, and he who is too thoughtful or too dull to
like anything but the greatest possible stimulus of reflection or
passion, are equally wanting in complexional fitness for a thorough
enjoyment of books. Ariosto occasionally says as fine things as
Dante, and Spenser as Shakspeare; but the business of both is to
enjoy; and in order to partake their enjoyment to its full extent,
you must feel what poetry is in the general as well as the particu-
lar, must be aware that there are different songs of the spheres,
some fuller of notes, and others of a sustained delight; and as the
former keep you perpetually alive to thought or passion, so from
the latter you receive a constant harmonious sense of truth and
beauty, more agreeable perhaps on the whole, though less exciting.
Ariosto, for instance, does not tell a story with the brevity and
concentrated passion of Dante; every sentence is not so full of
matter, nor the style so removed from the indifference of prose ;
yet you are charmed with a truth of another sort, equally charac-
teristic of the writer, equally drawn from nature, and substituting
a healthy sense of enjoyment for intenser emotion. Exclusiveness
of liking for this or that mode of truth, only shows, either that the
reader's perceptions are limited, or that he would sacrifice truth
520 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [LEIGH HUNT.
itself to his favourite form of it Sir Walter Raleigh, who was as
trenchant with his pen as his sword, hailed the " Faerie Queene "
of his friend Spenser in verses in which he said that "Petrarch"
was henceforward to be no more heard of; and that in all English
poetry, there was nothing he counted "of any price" but the
effusions of the new author. Yet Petrarch is still living ; Chaucer
was not abolished by Sir Walter; and Shakspeare is thought some-
what valuable. A botanist might as well have said that myrtles
and oaks were to disappear because acacias had come up. It is
with the Poet's creations as with Nature's, great or small. Where-
ever truth and beauty, whatever their amount, can be shaped into
verse, and answer to some demand for it in our hearts, there
poetry is to be found; whether in productions grand and beautiful
as some great event, or some mighty, leafy solitude, or no bigger
and more pretending than a sweet face or a bunch of violets ;
whether in Homer's epic or Gray's "Elegy" in the enchanted
gardens of Ariosto and Spenser, or the very pot-herbs of the
" Schoolmistress " of Shenstone, the balms of the simplicity of a
cottage. Not to know and feel this, is to be deficient in the
universality of Nature herself, who is a poetess on the smallest as
well as the largest scale, and who calls upon us to admire all her
productions ; not indeed with the same degree of admiration, but
with no refusal of it, except to defect.
I cannot draw this essay towards its conclusion better than with
three memorable words of Milton; who has said, that poetry, in
comparison with science, is " simple, sensuous, and passionate."
By simple, he means imperplexed and self-evident ; by sensuous,
genial and full of imagery; by passionate, excited and enthusiastic.
I am aware that different constructions have been put on some of
these words ; but the context seems to me to necessitate those
before us. I quote, however, not from the original, but from an
extract in the " Remarks on Paradise Lost " by Richardson.
What the poet has to cultivate above all things is love and
truth ; — what he has to avoid, like poison, is the fleeting and the
false. He will get no good by proposing to be " in earnest at the
moment." His earnestness must be innate and habitual; born
LEIGH HUNT. ] WHA T IS POE TRYt 5 2 1
with him, and felt to be his most precious inheritance. " I expect
neither profit nor general fame by my writings," says Coleridge,
in the Preface to his Poems ; " and I consider myself as having
been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its
own exceeding great reward; it has soothed my afflictions ; it has
multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude;
and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and
the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." — Pickering's
edition, p. 10.
" Poetry," says Shelley, " lifts the veil from the hidden beauty
of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not fami-
liar. It reproduces all that it represents ; and the impersonations
clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward in the minds of
those who have once contemplated them, as memorials of that
gentle and exalted content which extends itself over all thoughts
and actions with which it co-exists. The great secret of morals
is love, or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of
ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or
person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine
intensely and comprehensively ; he must put himself in the place
of another, and of many others : the pains and pleasures of his
species must become his own. The great instrument of moral
good is imagination; and poetry administers to the effect by
acting upon the cause." — Essays and Letters, vol. i. p. 16.
I would not willingly say anything after perorations like these ;
but as treatises on poetry may chance to have auditors who think
themselves called upon to vindicate the superiority of what is
termed useful knowledge, it may be as well to add, that if the
poet may be allowed to pique himself on any one thing more
than another, compared with those who undervalue him, it is on
that power of undervaluing nobody, and no attainments different
from his own, which is given him by the very faculty of imagina-
tion they despise. The greater includes the less. They do not
see that their inability to comprehend him argues the smaller
capacity. No man recognises the worth of utility more than the
poet : he only desires that the meaning of the term may not come
522 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [BARROW.
short of its greatness, and exclude the noblest necessities of his
fellow-creatures. He is quite as much pleased, for instance, with
the facilities for rapid conveyance afforded him by the railroad,
as the dullest confiner of its advantages to that single idea, or as
the greatest two-idea'd man who varies that single idea with
hugging himself on his "buttons" or his good dinner. But he
sees also the beauty of the country through which he passes, of
the towns, of the heavens, of the steam-engine itself, thundering
and fuming along like a magic horse ; of the affections that are
carrying, perhaps, half the passengers on their journey, nay, of
those of the great two-idea'd man ; and, beyond all this, he dis-
cerns the incalculable amount of good, and knowledge, and refine-
ment, and mutual consideration, which this wonderful invention
is fitted to circulate over the globe, perhaps to the displacement
of war itself, and certainly to the diffusion of millions of enjoy-
ments.
" And a button-maker, after all, invented it !" cries our friend.
Pardon me — it was a nobleman. A button-maker may be a
very excellent, and a very poetical man too, and yet not have
been the first man visited by a sense of the gigantic powers of the
combination of water and fire. It was a nobleman who first
thought of this most poetical bit of science. It was a nobleman
who first thought of it — a captain who first tried it — and a button-
maker who perfected it. And he who put the nobleman on such
thoughts was the great philosopher, Bacon, who said that poetry
had " something divine in it," and was necessary to the satisfac-
tion of the human mind.
85. — j£rc ttiwsfr 0f
BARROW.
[ISAAC BARROW, a great mathematician, a learned divine, a man of the
most exemplary private life, was born in 1630, and died at the early age of
forty-seven. It is stated that he was a negligent boy, and more than com-
monly addicted to fighting with his schoolfellows. His negligence was pro-
bably the result of the quickness of his capacity; at any rate it very readily
gave place to the most unwearied industry : his pugnacious habits were soon
BARROW.] THE INDUSTRY OF A GENTLEMAN. 523
transformed into an energy that enabled him to accomplish the many great
things which distinguished his short life. His disinterestedness was amongst
the most remarkable of his characteristics. He resigned his Lucasian profes-
sorship at Cambridge to make way for his pupil, Isaac Newton ; he resigned
his small living, and a prebend of Salisbury Cathedral, when he was appointed
Master of Trinity College. In this position his most earnest labours were
devoted to the formation of the library of that noble institution. The great
object of his life— and it was an object that had the highest reward— was to
benefit his fellow-creatures. Barrow's sermons furnish abundant evidence of
the comprehensiveness and vigour of his mind.]
" Not slothful in business."— JAMES i. 26.
' I have largely treated on the duty recommended in this precept,
and urged the observance of it in general, at a distance : I now
intend more particularly and closely to apply it in reference to
those persons who seem more especially obliged to it, and whose
observing it may prove of greatest consequence to public good ;
the which application may also be most suitable and profitable to
this audience. Those persons are of two sorts ; the one gentle-
men, the other scholars.
I. The first place, as civility demandeth, we assign to gentle-
men, or persons of eminent rank in the world, well allied, graced
with honour, and furnished with wealth : the which sort of per-
sons I conceive in a high degree obliged to exercise industry in
business.
This, at first hearing, may seem a little paradoxical and strange ;
for who have less business than gentlemen] who do need less
industry than they He that hath a fair estate, and can live on his
means, what hath he to do, what labour or trouble can be exacted
of him, what hath he to think on, or trouble his head with, but how
to invent recreations and pastimes to divert himself, and spend
his waste leisure pleasantly ? Why should not he be allowed to
enjoy himself, and the benefits which nature or fortune have freely
dispensed to him, as he thinketh best, without offence? Why
may he not say with the rich man in the gospel, " Soul, thou hast
much goods laid up for many years : take thine ease, eat, drink,
and be merry ?" Is it not often said by the wise man, that there
is " nothing better under the sun, than that a man should make
524 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BARROW.
his soul to enjoy good" in a cheerful and comfortable fruition of
his estate1? According to the passable notion and definition,
" What is a gentleman but his pleasure ?"
If this be true, if a gentleman be nothing else but this, then
truly he is a sad piece, the most inconsiderable, the most despic-
able, the most pitiful and wretched creature in the world : if it is
his privilege to do nothing, it is his privilege to be most unhappy ;
and to be so will be his fate if he will according to it ; for he that
is of no worth or use, who produceth no beneficial fruit, who per-
formeth no service to God or to the world, what title can he have
to happiness? What capacity thereof? What reward can he
claim 1 What comfort can he feel 1 To what temptations is he
exposed? What guilts will he incur?
But, in truth, it is far otherwise ; to suppose that a gentleman
is loose from business is a great mistake ; for, indeed, no man
hath more to do, no man lieth under greater engagements to
industry than he.
He is deeply obliged to be continually busy in more ways than
other men, who have but one simple calling or occupation allotted
to them; and that on a triple account; in respect to God, to
the world, and to himself.
i. He is first obliged to continual employment in respect to
God.
He, out of a grateful regard to Divine bounty for the eminency
of his station, adorned with dignity and repute, for the plentiful
accommodations and comforts of his life, for his exemption from
those pinching wants, those meaner cares, those sordid entertain-
ments, and those toilsome drudgeries, to which other men are
subject, is bound to be more diligent in God's service, employing
all the advantages of his state to the glory of his munificent Bene-
factor, to whose good providence alone he doth owe them; for
" who maketh him to differ" from another ? And what hath he
that he did not receive from God's free bounty ?
In proportion to the bulk of his fortune, his heart should be
enlarged with a thankful sense of God's goodness to him; his
mouth should ever be filled with acknowledgments and praise; he
BARROW.] THE INDUSTRY OF A GENTLEMAN; 525
should always be ready to express his grateful resentment* of so
great and peculiar obligations.
He should dedicate larger portions of that free leisure which
God hath granted to him, in waiting on God, and constant per-
formances of devotion.
He, in frequently reflecting on the particular ample favours of
God to him should imitate the holy Psalmist, that illustrious
pattern of great and fortunate men; saying after him, with his
spirit and disposition of soul, " Thou hast brought me to great
honour, and comforted me on every side ; therefore will I praise
thee and thy faithfulness, O God/' " Lord, by thy favour thou
hast made my mountain to stand strong : " " Thou hast set my
feet in a large room :" " Thou preparest a table before me :"
"Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over :" "To
the end that my glory may sing praise unto thee, and not be
silent." " The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance, and of
my cup; thou maintainest my lot. The lines are fallen unto me
in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage;" therefore "I
will bless the Lord."
In conceiving such meditations, his head and his heart should
constantly be employed ; as also in contriving ways of declaring
and discharging real gratitude ; asking himself, " What shall I
render unto the Lord for all his benefits V What shall I render
to him, not only as a man, for all the gifts of nature ; as a Chris-
tian, for all the blessings of grace ; but as a gentleman also, for
the many advantages of this my condition, beyond so many of
my brethren, by special Providence indulged to me ?
He hath all the common duties of piety, of charity, of sobriety,
to discharge with fidelity ; for being a gentleman doth not ex-
empt him from being a Christian, but rather more strictly doth
engage m'm to be such in a higher degree than others ; it is an
obligation peculiarly incumbent on him, in return for God's pecu-
liar favour, to pay God all due obedience, and to exercise him-
self in all good works ; disobedience being a more heinous crime
* Resentment is used by old writers in the sense of strong feeling in general.
Its limitation to angry feeling is a modern use of the word.
526 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BARROW.
in him, than in others who have not such encouragements to serve
God.
His obedience may be inculcated by those arguments which
Joshua and Samuel did use in pressing it on the Israelites:
" Only," said Samuel, " fear the Lord, and serve him in truth :
for consider how great things God hath done for you." And,
" I have given you/' saith God by Joshua, " a land for which ye
did not labour, and cities which ye built not ; and ye dwell in
them : of the vineyards and oliveyards which ye planted not, do
ye eat. Now, therefore, fear the Lord, and serve him in sincerity
and in truth."
His disobedience may be aggravated, as Nehemiah did that of
the Israelites : " They took strong cities and a fat land, and
possessed houses full of all goods, wells digged, vineyards and
oliveyards, and fruit trees in abundance ; so they did eat, and
were filled, and became fat; and delighted themselves in thy
great goodness : nevertheless they were disobedient, and rebelled
against thee, and cast thy law behind their backs." "They have
not served thee in their kingdom, and in thy great goodness,
which thou gavest them ; neither turned they from their wicked
works."
He particularly is God's steward, intrusted with God's sub-
stance for the sustenance and supply of God's family ; to relieve
his fellow-servants in their need, on seasonable occasions, by hos-
pitality, mercy, and charitable beneficence ; according to that in-
timation of our Lord, " Who is that faithful and wise steward,
whom his Lord shall make ruler of his household, to give them
their portion of meat indue season1?" And according to those
apostolical precepts, "As every one hath received a gift, (or
special favour,) even to minister the same to one another, as good
stewards of the manifold grace of God:" and "Charge the rich
in this world, that 'they do good, that they be rich in good works,
ready to distribute, willing to communicate."
And he that is obliged to purvey for so many, and so to
abound in good works, how can he want business ? How can he
BARROW.] THE IND US TRY OF A GENTLE MA N 527
pretend to a writ of ease ? Surely that gentleman is very blind,
and very barren of invention, who is to seek for work fit for him,
or cannot easily discern many employments belonging to him, of
great concern and consequence.
It is easy to prompt and show him many businesses, indispens-
ably belonging to him, as such.
It is his business to administer relief to his poor neighbours, in
their want and distresses, by his wealth. It is his business to
direct and advise the ignorant, to comfort the afflicted, to reclaim
the wicked, and encourage the good, by his wisdom. It is his
business to protect the weak, to rescue the oppressed, to ease
those who groan under heavy burdens, by his power ; to be such
a gentleman and so employed as Job was ; who " did not eat his
morsel alone, so that the fatherless did not eat thereof;" who
" did not withhold the poor from their desire, or cause the eyes
of the widow to fail ;" who " did not see any perish for want of
clothing, or any poor without covering;" who "delivered the
poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to
help him."
It is his business to be hospitable ; kind and helpful to stran-
gers ; following those noble gentlemen, Abraham and Lot, who
were so ready to invite and entertain strangers with bountiful
courtesy.
It is his business to maintain peace, and appease dissensions
among his neighbours, interposing his counsel and authority in
order thereto : whereto he hath that brave gentleman, Moses,
recommended for his pattern.
It is his business to promote the welfare and prosperity of his
country with his best endeavours, and by all his interest ; in
which practice the Sacred History doth propound divers gallant
gentlemen (Joseph, Moses, Samuel, Nehemiah, Daniel, Mordecai,
and all such renowned patriots) to guide him.
It is his business to govern his family well ; to educate his
children in piety and virtue ; to keep his servants in good order.
It is his business to look to his estate, and to keep it from
wasting ; that he may sustain the repute of his person and quality
528 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BARROW.
with decency ; that he may be furnished with ability to do good,
may provide well for his family, may be hospitable, may have
wherewith to help his brethren ; for if, according to St Paul's in-
junction, a man should "work with his own hands, that he may
have somewhat to impart to him that needeth ;" then must he
that hath an estate be careful to preserve it, for the same good
purpose.
It is his business to cultivate his mind with knowledge, with
generous dispositions, with all worthy accomplishments befitting
his condition, and qualifying him for honourable action ; so that
he may excel, and bear himself above the vulgar level, .no less in
real inward worth, than in exterior garb ; that he be not a gentle-
man merely in name Or show.
It is his business (and that no slight or easy business) to eschew
the vices, to check the passions, to withstand the temptations, to
which his condition is liable ; taking heed that his wealth, honour,
and power do not betray him unto pride, insolence, or contempt
of his poorer brethren ; unto injustice or oppression ; unto luxury
and riotous excess ; unto sloth, stupidity, forgetfulness of God,
and irreligious profaneness.
It is a business especially incumbent on him to be careful of
his ways, that they may have good influence on others, who are
apt to look on him as their guide and pattern.
He should labour and study to be a leader unto virtue, and a
notable promoter thereof; directing and exciting men thereto by
his exemplary conversation ; encouraging them by his countenance
and authority ; rewarding the goodness of meaner people by his
bounty and favour ; he should be such a gentleman as Noah, who
preached righteousness by his words and works before a profane
world.
Such particular affairs hath every person of quality, credit,
wealth, and interest, allotted to him by God, and laid on him as
duties ; the which to discharge faithfully will enough employ a man,
and doth require industry, much care, much pains; excluding sloth
and negligence : so that it is impossible for a sluggard to be a
worthy gentleman, virtuously disposed, a charitable neighbour, a
BARROW.] THE IND US TRY OF A GENTLEMAN. 529
good patriot, a good husband of his estate ; anything of that, to
which God, by setting him in such a station, doth call him.
Thus is a gentleman obliged to industry in respect of God, who
justly doth exact those labours of piety, charity, and all virtue from
him. Further,
2. He hath also obligations to mankind, demanding industry
from him, on accounts of common humanity, equity, and inge-
nuity ; for,
How can he fairly subsist on the common industry of mankind,
without bearing a share thereof1? How can he well satisfy himself
to dwell statelily, to feed daintily, to be finely clad, to maintain a
pompous retinue, merely on the sweat and toil of others, without
himself rendering a compensation, or making some competent
returns of care and pain redounding to the good of his neighbour?
How can he justly claim or reasonably expect from the world
the respect agreeable to his rank, if he doth not by worthy per-
formances conduce to the benefit of it ] Can men be obliged to
regard those from whom they receive no good ?
If no gentleman be tied to serve the public, or to yield help in
sustaining the common burdens, and supplying the needs of man-
kind, then is the whole order merely a burden, and an offence to the
world j a race of drones, a pack of ciphers in the commonwealth,
standing for nothing, deserving no consideration or regard : and
if any are bound, then all are ; for why should the whole burden
lie on some, while others are exempted 1
It is indeed supposed that all are bound thereto, seeing that all
have recompenses publicly allowed to them on such considera-
tions; divers respects and privileges peculiar to the order, grounded
on supposition, that they deserve such advantages by conferring
notable benefit on the public, the which indeed it were an arro-
gance to seek and an iniquity to accept for doing nothing.
It is an insufferable pride for any man to pretend or conceit
himself to differ so much from his brethren, that he may be
allowed to live in ease and sloth, while the rest of mankind are
subject to continual toil and trouble. Moreover,
3. A gentleman is bound to be industrious for his own sake ; it
VOL. I. 2 L
530 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BARROW.
is a duty which he oweth to himself, to his honour, to his interest,
to his welfare. He cannot without industry continue like himself,
or maintain the honour and repute becoming his quality and state,
or secure himself from contempt and disgrace; for to be honour-
able and slothful are things inconsistent, seeing honour does not
grow, nor can subsist without undertaking worthy designs, con-
stantly pursuing them, and happily achieving them ; it is the fruit
and reward of such actions which are not performed with ease.
4. Thus, on various accounts, a gentleman is engaged to busi-
ness, and concerned to exercise industry therein ; we may add,
that indeed the very nature of gentility, or the true notion of a
gentleman, doth imply so much.
For what, I pray, is a gentleman, what properties hath he, what
qualities are characteristical or peculiar to him, whereby he is dis-
tinguished from others, or raised above the vulgar ? Are they not
especially two, courage and courtesy ? which he that wanteth is
not otherwise than equivocally a gentleman, as an image or a car-
case is a man j without which, gentility in a conspicuous degree is
no more than a vain show, or an empty name : and these plainly
do involve industry, do exclude slothfulness ; for courage doth
prompt boldly to undertake, and resolutely to despatch great en-
terprises and employments of difficulty ; it is not seen in a flaunt-
ing garb, or strutting deportment ; not in hectorily ruffian-like
swaggering or huffing ; not in high looks or big words ; but in
stout and gallant deeds, employing vigour of mind and heart to
achieve them : how can a man otherwise approve himself courage-
ous, than by signalising himself in such a way1? And for courtesy,
how otherwise can it be well displayed than in sedulous activity
for the good of men 1
5. The work indeed of gentlemen is not so gross, but it may
be as smart and painful as any other. For all hard work is not
manual ; there are other instruments of action beside the plough,
the spade, the hammer, the shuttle : nor doth every work produce
sweat and tiring of body ; the head may work hard in contrivance
of good designs ; the tongue may be very active in dispensing
advice, persuasion, comfort, and edification in virtue : a man may
PEPYS.] THE PROGRESS OF THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON. 531
bestir himself in "going about to do good;" these are works em-
ploying the cleanly industry of a gentleman.
6. In such works it was that the truest and greatest pattern of
gentility that ever was did employ Himself. Who was that ? Even
our Lord himself; for He had no particular trade or profession :
no man can be more loose from any engagement to the world
than He was ; no man had less need of business or painstaking
than He, for He had a vast estate, being " heir of all things," all
the world being at His disposal ; yea, infinitely more, it being in
His power with a word to create whatever He would to serve His
need or satisfy His pleasure ; omnipotency being His treasure and
supply; He had a retinue of angels to wait on Him, and minister
to Him ; whatever sufficiency any man can fancy to himself to dis-
pense with his taking pains, that had He in a far higher degree :
yet did He find work for Himself, and continually was employed
in performing service to God, and imparting benefits to men; nor
was ever industry exercised on earth comparable to His.
Gentlemen, therefore, would do well to make Him the pattern
of their life, to whose industry they must be beholden for their
salvation ; in order whereto we recommend them to His grace.
86.— &fo |p r0gms 0f % <g«at f lap* 0f
PEPYS.
[SAMUEL PEPYS, Secretary to the Admiralty in the reigns of Charles II. and
James II., left behind him one of the most curious records of the iyth century
— a "Diary," which was first published in 1825, and has been recently re-
printed, with large additions. Pepys was an able man of business, and a
tolerably honest public officer in a corrupt age ; but we should perhaps care
little for him now, in common with many better and wiser whose good actions
have been written in water, had he not left us, in this Diary, the most amus-
ing exhibition of garrulous egotism that the world has seen. But he had a
right to be egotistic. How could he know that a hundred and fifty years after
he was gone he was to be "a good jest for ever?" His narrative of the Great
Plague, which we pick out from his Diary here and there, is almost as interest-
ing as Defoe's artistical but imaginary history.]
April 3oth. Great fears of the sickness here in the city, it being
532
HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS.
[PEPYS,
said that two or three houses are already shut up. God preserve
us all!
May 7th. The hottest day that ever I felt in my life. This
day, much against my will, I did in Drury Lane see two or three
houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and " Lord have
mercy upon us," writ there ; which was a sad sight to me, being
the first of the kind that to my remembrance I ever saw.
July 1 2th. A solemn fast-day for the plague growing upon us.
i3th. Above 700 died of the plague this week.
1 8th. I was much troubled this day to hear at Westminster how
PLAGUE IN LONDON
the officers do bury the dead in the open Tuttle-fields, pretending
want of room elsewhere.!
2oth. Walked to Redriffe, where I hear the sickness is, and in-
deed is scattered almost everywhere. There dying 1089 of the
plague this week. My Lady Carteret did this day give me a
bottle of plague-water home with me.
2Tst. Late in my chamber, setting some papers in order; the
plague growing very raging, and my apprehensions of it great.
26th. The king having dined, he came down, and I went in
the barge with him, I sitting at the door. Down to Woolwich
PEPYS.I THE PROGRESS OF THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON. 533
(and there I just saw, and kissed my wife, and saw some of her
painting, which is very curious ; and away again to the king) and
back again with him in the barge, hearing him and the duke talk,
and seeing and observing their manner of discourse. And, God
forgive me ! though I admire them with all the duty possible, yet
the more a man considers and observes them, the less he finds of
difference between them and other men, though (blessed be God !)
they are both princes of great nobleness and spirits. The Duke
of Monmouth is the most skittish, leaping gallant that ever I saw,
always in action, vaulting or leaping, or clambering. Sad news of
the deaths of so many in the parish of the plague, forty last night.
The bell always going. This day poor Robin Shaw at Backewell's
died, and Backewell himself now in Flanders. The king himself
asked about Shaw, and being told he was dead, said he was very
sorry for it The sickness is got into our parish this week, and
is got, indeed, everywhere ; so that I begin to think of setting
things in order, which I pray God enable me to put both as to
soul and body.
28th. Set out with my Lady Sandwich all alone with her with
six horses to Dagenhams, going by water to the Ferry. And a
pleasant going, and a good discourse ; and when there, very merry,
and the young couple now well acquainted. But, Lord ! to see
in what fear all the people here do live. How they are afraid of
us that come to them, insomuch that I am troubled at it, and
wish myself away. But some cause they have ; for the chaplain,
with whom but a week or two ago we were here mighty high dis-
puting, is since fallen into a fever and dead, being gone hence to
a friend's a good way off. A sober and healthful man. These
considerations make us all hasten the marriage, and resolve it
upon Monday next.
3Oth. It was a sad noise to hear our bell to toll and ring so
often to-day, either for deaths or burials; I think five or six times.
3 1 st. Thus I ended this month with the greatest joy that ever
I did any in my life, because I have spent the greatest part of it
with abundance of joy, and honour, and pleasant journeys, and
brave entertainments, and without cost of money: and at last live
534 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PEPYS.
to see the business ended with great content on all sides. Thus
we end this month, as I said, after the greatest glut of content
that ever I had; only under some difficulty because of the plague,
which grows mightily upon us, the last week being about 1700 or
1800 of the plague.
August 3d. To Dagenhams. All the way people, citizens,
walking to and fro, inquire how the plague is in the city this week
by the bill; which by chance, at Greenwich, I had heard was
2020 of the plague, and 3000 and odd of all diseases. By and
by, met my Lord Crewe returning ; Mr Marr telling me by the
way how a maid-servant of Mr John Wright's (who lives there-
abouts) falling sick of the plague, she was removed to an out-
house, and a nurse appointed to look to her ; who, being once
absent, the maid got out of the house at the window, and ran
away. The nurse coming a knocking, and having no answer, be-
lieved she was dead, and went and told Mr Wright so ; who and
his lady were in great strait what to do to get her buried. At
last resolved to go to Brentwood hard by, being in the parish, and
there get people to do it. But they would not ; so he went home
full of trouble, and in the way met the wench walking over the
common, which frighted him worse than before ; and was forced
to send people to take her, which he did ; and they got one of
the pest coaches and put her into it to carry her to a pest-house.
And passing in a narrow lane Sir Anthony Browne, with his
brother and some friends in the coach, met this coach with the
curtains drawn close. The brother being a young man, and be-
lieving there might be some lady in it that would not be seen,
and the way being narrow, he thrust his head out of his own into
her coach, and to look, and there saw somebody look very ill,
and in a sick dress, and stunk mightily ; which the coachman
also cried out upon. And presently they come up to some people
that stood looking after it, and told our gallants that it was a
maid of Mr Wright's, carried away sick of the plague ; which put
the young gentleman into a fright, had almost cost him his life,
but is now well again.
Sth, To my office a little, and then to the Duke of Albemarle's
PEPYS.] THE PROGRESS OF THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON. 535
about some business. The streets empty all the way, now even
in London, which is a sad sight. And to Westminster Hall,
where talking, hearing very sad stories from Mrs Mumford ;
among others, of Mr Michell's sons' family. And poor Will, that
used to sell us ale at the Hall door, his wife and three children
died, all I think in a day. So home through the city again, wish-
ing I may have taken no ill in going ; but I will go, I think, no
more thither.
loth. By and by to the office, where we sat all the morning ;
in great trouble to see the bill this week rise so high, to above
4000 in all, and of them about 3000 of the plague. Home to
draw over anew my will, which I had bound myself by oath to
despatch to-morrow night ; the town growing so unhealthy, that a
man cannot depend upon living two days.
1 2th. The people die so, that now it seems they are fain to
carry the dead to be buried by daylight, the nights not sufficing
to do it in. And my Lord Mayor commands people to be within
at nine at night all, as they say, that the sick may have liberty to
go abroad for air.
1 3th. It was dark before I could get home, and so land at
Churchyard stairs, where to my great trouble, I met a dead corpse
of the plague, in the narrow alley just bringing down a little pair
of stairs. But I thank God I was not much disturbed at it.
However, I shall beware of being late abroad again.
1 6th. To the Exchange, where I have not been a great while.
But, Lord ! how sad a sight it is to see the streets empty of
people, and very few upon the 'Change. Jealous of every door
that one sees shut up, lest it should be the plague ; and about us
two shops in three, if not more, generally shut up.
2oth. To Brainford ; and there at the inn that goes down to
the waterside, I light and paid off my post-horses, and so slipped
on my shoes, and laid my things by, the tide not serving, and to
church, where a dull sermon, and many Londoners.
After church to my room, and eat and drank, and so about
seven o'clock by water, and got between nine and ten to Queen-
hive, very dark. And I could not get my waterman to go else-
536 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [PEPYS.
where for fear of the plague. Thence with a lanthorn, in great
fear of meeting dead corpses, carrying to be buried ; but (blessed
be God !) met none, but did see now and then a link (which is
the mark of them) at a distance.
22d. I went away and walked to Greenwich, in my way seeing
a coffin with a dead body therein, dead of the plague, lying in an
open close belonging to Coome Farm, which was carried out last
night, and the parish have not appointed anybody to bury it, but
only set a watch there all day and night, that nobody should go
thither or come thence ; this disease making us more cruel to
one another than we are to dogs.
3oth. Abroad and met with Hadley, our clerk, who, upon my
asking how the plague goes, told me it increases much, and much
in our parish.
3 1 st. Up, and after nutting several things in order to my re-
moval to Woolwich, the plague having a great increase this week,
beyond all expectation, of almost 2000, making the general bill
7000, odd 100 ; and the plague above 6000. Thus this month
ends with great sadness upon the public, through the greatness of
the plague everywhere through the kingdom almost. Every day
sadder and sadder news of its increase. In the city died this
week 7496, and of them 6102 of the plague. But it is feared
that the true number of the dead this week is near 10,000 ; partly
from the poor that cannot be taken notice of through the great-
ness of the number, and partly from the Quakers and others, that
will not have any bell ring for them.
September 3d, (Lord's Day.) Up, and put on my coloured silk
suit, very fine, and my new periwig, bought a good while since,
but durst not wear, because the plague was in Westminster when
I bought it ; and it is a wonder what will be the fashion after the
plague is done, as to periwigs, for nobody will dare to buy any
hair, for fear of the infection, that it had been cut off the heads
of people dead of the plague. My Lord Brouncker, Sir J. Minnes,
and I, up to the vestry, at the desire of the justices of the peace,
in order to the doing something for the keeping of the plague
from growing ; but, Lord ! to consider the madness of people of
PEPYS.] THE PROGRESS OF THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON. 537
the town, who will (because they are forbid) come in crowds along
with the dead corpses to see them buried ; but we agreed on
some orders for the prevention thereof. Among other stories,
one was very passionate, methought, of a complaint brought
against a man in the town for taking a child from London from
an infected house. Alderman Hooker told us it was the child of
a very able citizen in Gracious Street, a saddler, who had buried
all the rest of his children of the plague, and himself and wife now
being shut up, and in despair of escaping, did desire only to save
the life of this little child ; and so prevailed to have it received
stark naked into the arms of a friend, who brought it (having put
it into new clothes) to Greenwich ; where, upon hearing the story,
we did agree it should be permitted to be received and kept in
the town.
2oth. To Lambeth. But, Lord ! what a sad time it is to see no
boats upon the river, and grass grows all up and down White
Hall court, and nobody but poor wretches in the streets ! and,
which is worst of all, the duke showed us the number of the
plague this week, brought in the last night from the Lord Mayor;
that it is increased about 600 more than the last, which is quite
contrary to our hopes and expectations, from the coldness of the
late season. For the whole general number is 8297, and of them
the plague 7165 ; which is more in the whole by above 50 than
the biggest bill yet : which is very grievous on us all.
October i6th. I walked to the Tower; but, Lord! how empty
the streets are and melancholy, so many poor sick people in the
streets full of sores ; and so many sad stories overheard as I walk,
everybody talking of this dead, and that man sick, and so many
in this place, and so many in that. And they tell me that, in
Westminster, there is never a physician, and but one apothecary
left, all being dead ; but that there are great hopes of a great
decrease this week : God send it !
2 Qth. In the streets did overtake and almost run upon two
women crying and carrying a man's coffin between them ; I
suppose the husband of one of them, which, methinks, is a sad
thing.
538 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. |PEpvs.
November 27th. I into London, it being dark night, by a
hackney-coach ; the first I have durst to go in many a day, and
with great pain now for fear. But it being unsafe to go by water
in the dark and frosty cold, and unable, being weary with my
morning walk, to go on foot, this was my only way. Few people
yet in the streets, nor shops open, here and there twenty in a
place almost ; though not above five or six o'clock at night.
3oth. Great joy we have this week in the weekly bill, it being
come to 544 in all, and but 333 of the plague, so that we are en-
couraged to get to London as soon as we can.
January 5th. I with my Lord Brouncker and Mrs Williams, by
coach with four horses to London, to my lord's house in Covent
Garden. But, Lord! what staring to see a nobleman's coach
come to town; and porters everywhere bow to us; and such beg-
ging of beggars! And delightful it is to see the town full ot
people again ; and shops begin to open, though in many places
seven or eight together, and more, all shut ; but yet the town is
full, compared with what it used to be; I mean the city end; for
Covent Garden and Westminster are yet very empty of people, no
court nor gentry being there.
1 3th. Home with his lordship to Mrs Williams's in Covent
Garden, to dinner, (the first time I ever was there,) and there met
Captain Coke ; and pretty merry, though not perfectly so because
of the fear that there is of a great increase again of the plague
this week.
22d. The first meeting of Gresham College since the plague.
Dr Goddard did fill us with talk, in defence of his and his fellow-
physicians going out of town in the plague time ; saying, that
their particular patients were most gone out of town, and they
left at liberty ; and a great deal more, &c.
3oth. This is the first time that I have been in the church
since I left London for the plague, and it frighted me indeed to
go through the church more than I thought it could have done,
to see so many graves lie so high upon the churchyards, where
people have been buried of the plague. I was much troubled at
it, and do not think to go through it again a good while.
TENNYSON.] THE MAY Q UEEN. 539
February 4th, (Lord's Day.) And my wife and I the first
time together at church since the plague, and now only because
of Mr Mills his coming home to preach his first sermon, expect-
ing a great excuse for his leaving the parish before anybody went,
and now staying till all are come home : but he made a very poor
and short excuse, and a bad sermon. It was a frost, and had
snowed last night, which covered the graves in the churchyard,
so as I was the less afraid for going through.
87. — Stjxe Uto <$mmt
TENNYSON.
[ALFRED TENNYSON, of Trinity College, Cambridge, published his first
volume of Poems in 1830. His proper rank in his country's literature was
soon established. The office of poet-laureate was conferred upon Tennyson in
1850 on the death of Wordsworth. What an influence the poems of Tenny-
son have had upon the tastes of the present age can scarcely be appreciated
except by a contrast with the fiery stimulus of the feast which Byron prepared
half a century ago. There must be pauses in the excitement of these days — in
which "onward," the motto of one of the railway companies, may apply to all
the movements of social life — when the most busy and the most pleasure -seek-
ing may relish a poet who, with a perfect mastery of harmonious numbers,
fills the mind with tranquil images and natural thoughts, drawn out of his inti-
mate acquaintance with the human heart.]
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ;
To-morrow ;11 be the happiest time of all the glad new year;
Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ;
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
There 's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as
mine;
There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caroline :
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,
So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
540 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [TENNYSON
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break :
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see,
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday —
But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be :
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ?
There 's many a bolder lad 'ill .woo me any summer day,
And I ;m to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,
And you '11 be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen ;
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hol-
lows gray,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'
the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ;
TENNYSON.] THE MAY Q UEEN. 541
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play,
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother, dear,
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad new year :
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,
For I 'in to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o'
the May.
NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother, dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year.
It is the last new year that I shall ever see,
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind,
And the new year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May,
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane ;
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again :
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high :
I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
542 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [TENNYSON
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night j
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid,
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me now ;
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place ;
Though you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face,
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often often with you when you think I 'm far away.
Good night, good night, when I have said good night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ;
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green :
She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She '11 find my garden tools upon the granary floor :
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more :
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlour window and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born,
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ;
TENNYSON.] THE MAY QUEEN. 543
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year,
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother, dear.
CONCLUSION.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year !
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here.
Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.
It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done !
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair !
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there !
Oh blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head !
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin.
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet :
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call ;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.
544 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. (TENNYSON.
For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ;
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's notforthem; it'smine!"
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to heaven, and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ;
There 's many a worthier than I would make him happy yet.
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
Oh look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine —
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun —
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true —
And what is life, that we should moan 1 why make we such ado?
For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home —
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come —
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast —
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
E. H. LOCKER.] THE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL. 545
88.— ff^ ©lir dEirglwjf !|hraral.
E. H. LOCKER.
[THE following graphic picture of "a true old English officer " was published
in 1823, in "The Plain Englishman," — a little periodical work which was
amongst the first to recognise the necessity of meeting the growing ability of
the people to read, by improving and innoxious reading. The editor and pub-
lisher of "Half-Hours" was associated in this endeavour with one of the
worthiest of men, Mr Edward Hawke Locker, who was then resident at
Windsor, but subsequently filled the responsible and honourable posts, first of
Secretary of Greenwich Hospital, and afterwards of Commissioner. Mr
Locker, some few years ago, retired from his official duties, under the pressure
of severe illness, through which calamity his fine faculties and his energetic
benevolence ceased to be useful to his fellow-creatures ; and he died in 1849.]
Hamlet. My father — methinks I see my father I
Horatio. Oh where, my lord ?
Hamlet. In my mind's eye, Horatio . . .
He was a man, take him all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again. Act I. Scene i.
Two-and-twenty years have this day expired since the decease
of my much-honoured father. The retrospect presents to me the
lively image of this excellent man, and carries me back to a dis-
tant period, when I was a daily witness of his benevolence. It is
natural that I should dwell with affection upon this portrait, and
I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of thinking that it may inter-
est my readers also. The earliest of my impressions represents
him as coming to see my little sister and me, when we were but
five or six years old, residing in an obscure village, under the care
of a maiden aunt. Nor should I, perhaps, have remembered the
occasion, but for my taking a violent fancy to a rude sketch of a
stag which he drew to amuse us on the fragment of one of our
playthings. So whimsical are the records of our childish days !
Only a few years before, he had the grievous misfortune to lose
my mother in child-birth in the flower of her age, leaving him
with an infant family, almost heart-broken under this severe priva-
tion. I have often heard him say that, but for our sakes, he would
gladly have been then released ; and, indeed, he had every pro-
VOL. I. 2 M
546 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [E. H. LOCKER.
spect of soon following her. He had recently returned in ill
health from Jamaica, and the violence of his grief so much aug-
mented his malady, that the physicians at one time despaired of
his recovery. A firm reliance upon the goodness of Providence,
and the strength of a powerful constitution, carried him through
all his sufferings. He was by nature of a cheerful disposition ;
but though his spirits recovered with his health, the remembrance
of his beloved wife, however mellowed by time, was indelibly ex-
pressed by the fondest affection. He never mentioned her name
without a sigh, or handled any trifle which had once been hers,
without betraying the yearnings of a wounded heart. He attached
a sanctity to every thing allied to her memory. Her ornaments,
her portrait, her letters, her sentiments, were objects of his con-
stant regard. When he spoke of her, his tremulous voice proved
the unabated interest with which he remembered their happy
union. When alone, her image was continually present to his
thoughts. In his walks he delighted to hum the airs she was
accustomed to play ; and I remember the vibration of an old
guitar, which had been preserved as one of her reliques, imme-
diately drew tears from his eyes, while he described to us the
skill with which she accompanied her own melody.
From all I have heard of her, she must have been a woman of
very superior merit. With many personal charms, she was ac-
complished in a degree which rendered her society highly attrac-
tive. She had accompanied her father to the West Indies, where
he held the chief command, and, during that period, she had
abundant occasions of showing the sweetness of her disposition,
and the steadiness of her resolution. Her father was an admiral
of the old regime; and I believe it sometimes required all her
discretion to steer her light bark amidst the stormy seas she had
to navigate.
My father was no ordinary character. One of the most re-
markable features of his mind was simplicity. He was the most
natural person I ever knew, and this gave a very agreeable tone
to all he said and did. I verily believe he hated nothing but
hypocrisy. He was blessed moreover with a sound understanding,
E. H. LOCKER.] THE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL. 547
an intrepid spirit, a benevolent heart. From his father, who was
a man of distinguished learning, and from his mother, who (as a
Stillingfleet) inherited much of the same spirit, he derived a taste
for literature, which, though thwarted by the rough duties of a sea
life, was never quenched, and afterwards broke forth amidst the
leisure of more gentle associations on shore. He had been taken
from a public school too early to secure a classical education; but
such was the diligence with which he repaired this defect, that
few men of his profession could be found so well acquainted with
books and their authors. In the retirement of his later years, he
was enabled to cultivate this taste with every advantage, and
numbered among his familiar friends some of the most eminent
persons of his own time. Saturday was devoted to receiving men
of literature and science at his table. On these occasions we
were always permitted to be present, and looked forward with
delight to this weekly festival, which contributed essentially to our
improvement as well as to our amusement. He lost no oppor-
tunity of affording us instructioa. All departments of literature
had attractions for him ; and, without the science of a proficient,
he had a genuine love of knowledge wherever it was to be found.
He was a great reader. I think Shakespeare was his favourite
amusement ; and he read his plays with a native eloquence and
feeling, which sometimes drew tears from our eyes, and still oftener
from his own.
He always considered himself a fortunate man in his naval
career, although he persevered through a long and arduous course
of service before he attained the honours of his profession. Hav-
ing greatly distinguished himself in boarding a French man-of-
war, his conduct at length attracted the notice of Sir Edward
Hawke, to whom he ascribed all his subsequent success. My
father often said that it was that great officer who first weaned
him from the vulgar habits of a cockpit ; and he considered him
as the founder of the more gentlemanly spirit which has gra-
dually been gaining ground in the navy. At the period when he
first went to sea, a man-of-war was characterised by the coarse-
ness so graphically described in the novels of Smollett. Tobacco
548 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [E. H. LOCKER.
and a checked shirt were associated with lace and a cockade; and
the manners of a British admiral partook of the language and
demeanour of a boatswain's mate. My father accompanied his
distinguished patron to the Mediterranean in the year 1757, when
he was despatched to relieve the unfortunate Admiral Byng in the
command, with orders to send him a close prisoner to England.
I stop to relate a curious anecdote regarding that affair, which I
have often heard from my father's lips.
When Sir Edward reached Gibraltar, he found Byng, with his
fleet, lying at anchor in the bay. On communicating the nature
of his instructions, he forbore to place the admiral in arrest, and
conducted the affair with so much delicacy, that none else sus-
pected the serious nature of his orders. The two admirals met
at the table of Lord Tyrawley, then governor of Gibraltar, who,
after dinner, withdrew with Byng to another apartment, where he
assured him that, by private letters just then received, he was con-
vinced the ministry meant to sacrifice him to the popular fury,
advising him to take this opportunity of escaping to Spain, as the
only chance of saving his life. Byng, in reply, confided to his
lordship the generous conduct of Hawke, declaring that no per-
sonal consideration could induce him to betray that honourable
man ; adding, that he was determined to meet his fate, whatever
might be the consequence of his return to England. This trans-
action, which does equal honour to both admirals, shows the
generous nature of Hawke, who found in my father a kindred
spirit, worthy of his future friendship and protection. Under
the auspices of this patron, he shared in the glory of the fight
with the French fleet, under Marshal Conflans, off Quiberon,
in 1759, and, being preferred after the action to the post of first
lieutenant of the Royal George, bearing Sir Edward's flag, he
advanced him through the successive stages of his subsequent
promotion — their mutual attachment only ceasing with the life of
that illustrious commander.
A reputation so well earned was rewarded, not only with pre-
ferment, but by the esteem and affection both of officers and men.
The sailors respected him for his gallantry, and loved him for his
E. H. LOCKER.] THE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL. 549
humanity — virtues in which he emulated the brilliant example of
his patron. In the selection of his earliest naval friends he had
shown great discernment; for they subsequently became the most
distinguished officers in the service. When, in his turn, he became
a patron, his example as a commander, aided by the high integrity
of his character, and the native benevolence of his disposition,
drew around him a number of young officers, whose brilliant career
richly repaid the obligations they received from him. Several of
them, who rose to distinction, afterwards presented him with their
portraits. These were hung round his room, and he took an hon-
est pride in showing to his visitors these memorials of his " youn-
kers/' relating some honourable trait of each of them in succession.
Among these was Horatio Nelson, who, to the last hour of his
life, regarded him with the affection of a son, and with the respect
of a pupil. The following extract from a letter written many
years after, amidst the anxieties of his exalted station, shows the
unabated attachment with which he regarded the guide of his
youth : —
"PALERMO, Feb. 9, 1799.
" MY DEAR FRIEND, — I well know your own goodness of heart
will make all due allowance for my present situation, and that
truly I have not the time or power to answer all the letters I
receive at the moment. But you, my old friend, after twenty-
seven years' acquaintance, know that nothing can alter my attach-
ment and gratitude to you. I have been your scholar. It is you
who taught me to board a French man-of-war by your conduct
when in the Experiment. It is you who always said, ' Lay a
Frenchman close, and you will beat him;' and my only merit in
my profession is being a good scholar. Our friendship will never
end but with my life ; but you have always been too partial to
me. The Vesuvian republic being fixed, I have now to look out
for Sicily; but revolutionary principles are so prevalent in the
world that no monarchical government is safe, or sure of lasting
ten years. — Believe me ever your faithful and affectionate friend,
"NELSON."
550 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [E. H. LOCKER.
While Nelson was yet a private captain, and his merits unknown
beyond the limits of his own immediate friends, my father always
spoke of him with a prophetic anticipation of his future greatness,
such was the sagacity with which he penetrated the character of
that extraordinary man. When at length Nelson returned to Eng-
land, his old friend was rapidly sinking into the grave ; yet the
desire to behold once more the hero whom he still regarded with
the affection of a parent, occupied his thoughts during the last
days of his life. But this wish was not gratified — he never saw
him again. Nelson, when informed of his death, hastened to pay
the last tribute of respect to his remains ; and though on that
occasion I was deeply engaged with my own sorrows, I could not
be insensible to the unequivocal proofs of grateful attachment
which he then showed to his early patron.
The principles of my father's character are, perhaps, better un-
derstood by viewing him in the retirement of domestic life, than
in his professional relations; for it is only in private that the more
delicate traits of disposition are to be observed. There is a cer-
tain exterior worn by most men in their intercourse with the world,
which produces a general resemblance ; but this is thrown aside
upon their return home, and the nicer peculiarities of character,
hidden from the public eye, are disclosed without reserve in the
bosom of their own families. Thus it was with my father. The
playfulness of his disposition never appeared to such advantage as
at his own fireside ; — and though the warmth of his benevolence,
which beamed on his venerable countenance, diffused itself wher-
ever he came, it glowed with peculiar ardour towards those more
closely connected with him. He was no party man. Though
cordially attached to his Church and king, he was neither a bigot
in religion nor in politics. He had great reluctance to contro-
versy, and enjoyed the friendship of men of worth of all parties.
His father, indeed, was a stanch Jacobite, and he thus inherited
Tory principles. He used to relate that, when a boy, he was often
sent with presents to relieve the poor Highlanders confined in the
Tower, after the rebellion of 1745. One of these poor fellows
(who deserved a better fate) gave him his leathern belt as a keep-
E. H. LOCKER.] THE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL. 551
sake a few days before his execution ; and in treasuring up this
simple relic, he fostered the political opinions with which it. was
associated. With all this partiality, he reprobated the heartless
ingratitude of Prince Charles ; and among the honourable distinc-
tions of his late sovereign's character, he most of all admired his
tenderness to the last of the Stuarts.
The remembrance of any considerable act of kindness became
a part of my father's constitution. It cost him no effort to retain
it in his memory. He never seemed to feel the burden of an obli-
gation, and it arose to his mind whenever he had an opportunity
to requite it. The child, the friend, nay, even the dog of any one
to whom he was obliged, was sure to receive some acknowledg-
ment. I shall never forget a visit to the tomb of his naval patron,
in the little village of Swatheling, which called up all his gratitude
at the distance of twenty years. A rough old admiral who accom-
panied us struggled hard to hide his emotion, but my father gave
free course to his feelings, while the tears stole down their rugged
cheeks in sympathy.
Good breeding is said to be the daughter of good nature.
There was an unaffected cordiality in my father's hospitality, a
frank familiarity towards an old friend, a respect and tenderness
to women of all ranks and ages, and complexions, which marked
the generous spirit of an English gentleman of the old school.
Towards young persons he had none of the chilliness and auste-
rity of age. He treated them on equal terms ; and they learned
many a valuable lesson from his conversation, while they fancied
themselves only amused. He had an excellent library, which,
before his death, was nearly exhausted in presents to his youthful
friends. Of this I had some years ago a very gratifying proof,
on visiting a Spanish gentleman in the island of Majorca, who
unexpectedly to me opened a little cabinet filled with the best
English authors, which my father had given him when a student
in London.
The fireside, on a winter evening, was a scene highly pictur-
esque, and worthy of the pencil of Wilkie. The veteran sat in his
easy-chair, surrounded by his children. A few gray hairs peeped
552 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [E. H. LOCKER.
from beneath his hat, worn somewhat awry, which gave an arch
turn to the head, which it seldom quitted. The anchor button,
and scarlet waistcoat trimmed with gold, marked the fashion of
former times. Before him lay his book, and at his side a glass
prepared by the careful hand of a daughter, who devoted herself
to him with a tenderness peculiarly delightful to the infirmities of
age. The benevolent features of the old man were slightly
obscured by the incense of a "cigdrre" (the last remnant of a
cock-pit education) which spread its fragrance in long wreaths of
smoke around himself and the whole apartment. A footstool
supported his wounded leg, beneath which lay the old and faith-
ful Newfoundland dog stretched on the hearth. Portraits of King
Charles the First and Van Tromp (indicating the characteristic
turn of his mind) appeared above the chimney-piece ; and a mul-
titude of prints of British heroes covered the rest of the wainscot.
A knot of antique swords and Indian weapons garnished the old-
fashioned pediment of the door ; a green curtain was extended
across the room, to fence off the cold air, to which an old sailor's
constitution is particularly sensitive. Such was the picture.
The servants, who reverenced his peculiarities, served him with
earnest affection. Even his horse confided in his benevolence as
much as the rest of the household ; for when he was of opinion
that the morning ride was sufficiently extended, he commonly
faced about, and as my father generally rode in gambadoes, (not
the most convenient armour for a conflict with a self-willed steed,)
he generally yielded to the caprice of his horse. The chief per-
sonage in his confidence was old Boswell, the self-invested minister
of the extraordinaries of the family, who looked upon the foot-
man as a jackanapes, and on the female servants as incapable of
"understanding his honour." Boswell had been in his time a
smart young seaman, and formerly rowed the stroke-oar in the
captain's barge. After many a hard gale and long separation, the
association was renewed in old age, and to a bystander had more
of the familiarity of ancient friendship than of the relation of
master and servant. " Has your honour any further commands 1"
said Boswell, as he used to enter the parlour in the evening,
E. H. LOCKER.] THE OLD ENGLISH ADMIRAL. 553
while, throwing his body into an angle, he made his reverence,
and shut the door with his opposite extremity at the same time.
" No, Boswell, I think not, unless indeed you are disposed for a
glass of grog before you go." " As your honour pleases," was the
established reply. A word from my father soon produced the
beverage, at the approach of which the old sailor was seen to
slide a quid into his cuff, and prepare for action. " Does your
honour remember when we were up the Mississippi, in the Nautilus
sloop of war?" "Ay, my old friend, I shall never forget it, 'twas
a happy trip, the poor Indians won all our hearts." " Ah, but
your honour, there was worse company than they in the woods
there. Mayhap you recollect the great black snake that clung
about the sergeant of marines, and had well-nigh throttled him1?"
" I do, I do, and the poor fellow was obliged to beat its head
to pieces against his own thigh. I remember it as though it was
but yesterday." "And the rattlesnake too, that your honour
killed with your cane, five and forty feet." "Avast, Boswell!"
cried my father, " mind your reckoning there, 'twas but twelve,
you rogue, and that's long enough in all conscience." The scenes
were highly amusing to our occasional visitors, and are still re-
membered with delight by those of his familiar friends who yet
survive him.
If benevolence was the striking feature of his disposition, reli-
gion was the guide of his conduct, the anchor of his hope, the
stay of all his confidence. There was an habitual energy in his
private devotions, which proved the firm hold which Christianity
had obtained over his mind. Whether in reading or in conversa-
tion, at the name of God he instantly uncovered his head, by a
spontaneous movement of religious feeling. Nothing but illness
ever kept him from church. His example there was a silent re-
proof to the idle and indifferent. I see him still in imagination,
kneeling, unconscious of all around him, absorbed in earnest
prayer ; and though his features were concealed, the agitation of
his venerable head indicated the fervour of his supplications. The
recollection has often quickened my own indolence.
Such was the man whose memory was endeared to all who
554 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.
knew his worth, affording us a beautiful example of a true old
English officer.
Dec. 26, 1822.
89.— % ifat-$rjofam paiir,
[IN a singular book — first printed about 1502, called "Arnold's Chronicle,"
the strangest medley of the most prosaic things — appears, for the first time, as
far as we know, the ballad of "The Nut-Brown Maid." Upon this ballad
Prior founded his poem of " Henry and Emma." Thomas Warton, in his
" History of English Poetry," truly says that Prior "paraphrased the poem
without improving its native beauties ; " and he adds, " there is hardly an ob-
solete word, or that requires explanation, in the whole piece." Prior spoilt
the story, enfeebled the characters, and utterly obliterated the simplicity of his
original. The reader will bear in mind that the poem, after the first sixteen
lines, is conducted in dialogue. We distinguish the beginning and end of each
speech by inverted commas.]
Be it right or wrong, these men among, on women do complain,
Affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain
To love them well, for never a deal they love a man again ;
For let a man do what he can their favour to attain,
Yet if a new do them pursue, their first true lover than *
Laboureth for nought, for from her thought he is a bamsh'd man.
I say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said,
That woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decay'd ;
But, nevertheless, right good witness in this case- might be laid,
That they love true, and continue ; record the Nut-Brown Maid ;
Which from her love, when her to prove, he came to make his
moan,
Would not depart, for in her heart she loved but him alone.
Then between us let us discuss, what was all the manere t
Between them two ; we will also tell all the pain and fear
That she was in. Now I begin, so that ye me answere.
Wherefore all ye that present be, I pray you give an ear :
" I am the knight, I come by night, as secret as I can,
Saying — Alas, thus standeth the case, I am a banished man ! "
* Then. t Manner.
ANONYMOUS.] THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 555
" And I your will for to fulfil, in this will not refuse ;
Trusting to show, in wordes few, that men have an ill use,
To their own shame, women to blame, and causeless them accuse ;
Therefore to you I answer now, all women to excuse ;
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? I pray you tell
anon,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" It standeth so ; a deed is do wherefore much harm shall grow,
My destiny is' for to die a shameful death I trow,
Or else to flee : the one must be ; none other way I know
But to withdraw, as an outlaw, and take me to my bow ;
Wherefore adieu, my own heart true, none other rede * I can,
For I must to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" O Lord, what is the worlde's bliss, that changeth as the moon,
My summer's day, in lusty May, is dark'd before the noon :
I hear you say farewell ; nay, nay, we depart t not so soon ;
Why say ye so ? whither will ye go 1 alas, what have ye done 1
All my welfare to sorrow and care should change if ye were gone,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" I can believe it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain ;
But afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain
Shall soon aslake, and ye shall take comfort to you again.
Why should ye nought 1 for to make thought your labour were in
vain,
And thus I do, and pray you lo,J as heartily as I can,
For I must to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Now sith that ye have show'd to me the secret of your mind,
I shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find ;
Sith it is so, that ye will go, I will not leave behind,
Shall never be said, the Nut-Brown Maid was to her love unkind j
Make you ready, for so am I, although it were anon,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
* Counsel. t Part. J Mark.
556 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.
" Yet I you rede to take good heed what men will think and say,
Of young and old, it shall be told, that ye be gone away,
Your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood you to play,
And that ye might, from your delight, no longer make delay.
Rather than ye should thus for me be call'd an ill woman,
Yet would I to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Though it be sung of old and young that I should be to blame,
Theirs be the charge that speak so large in hurting of my name ;
For I will prove that faithful love, it is devoid of shame ;
In your distress and heaviness, to part with you the same;
And sure all tho'* that do not so, true lovers are they none;
But, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" I counsel you, remember how it is no maiden's law,
Nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlaw:
For ye must there in your hand bear a bow ready to draw,
And as a thief thus must ye live, ever in dread and awe,
By which to you great harm might grow, yet had I liefer then
That I had to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" I think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's law,
But love may make me for your sake, as I have said before,
To come on foot, to hunt and shoot to get us meat in store,
For so that I your company may have, I ask no more;
From which to part, it maketh mine heart as cold as any stone,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" For an outlaw this is the law, that men him take and bind
Without pity, hang'd to be, and waver with the wind.
If I had need, as God forbid, what rescues could ye find?
Forsooth I trow, you and your bow for fear would draw behind;
And no marvel, for little avail were in your counsel thant
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Full well know ye that women be full feeble for to fight,
No womanhede:{: it is indeed to be bold as a knight;
* Those. f Then. % Womanhood.
ANONYMOUS.] THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 557
Yet in such fear if that ye were, with enemies day or night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as I might,
And you to save, as women have, from death many one;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
"Yet take good heed for ever I drede* that ye could not sustain
The thorny ways, the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain,
The cold, the heat; for dry or wetet we must lodge on the plain;
And as above none other rofet but a brake bush or twain;
Which soon should grieve you, I believe, and ye would gladly than,
That I had to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Sith I have here been partynere§ with you of joy and bliss,
I must also part of your woe endure, as reason is;
Yet am I sure of one pleasure; and, shortly, it is this,
That where ye be me seemeth, perdie, I could not fare amiss ;
Without more speech, I you beseech, that we were soon agone ;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" If ye go thider,|| ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine,
There shall no meat be for you get, nor drink, beer, ale nor wine,
Nor sheetes clean to lie between, maden of thread and twine;
None other house, but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and
mine:
Lo, mine heart sweet, this ill diet should make you pale and wan,
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Among the wild deer, such an archere, as men say that ye be,
Ne may not fail of good victaile, where is so great plenty,
And water clear, of the rivere, shall be full sweet to me,
With which in hele,1T I shall righte wele endure, as ye shall see;
And, ere we go, a bed or two I can provide anon,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" Lo yet before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me,
As cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by your knee;
* Dread. t Wet. £ Roof.
§ Partner. II Thither. f Health.
558 HALF-HO URS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [ANONYMOUS.
With bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be;
And this same night, before daylight, to wood ward will I flee.
If that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can,
Else will I to the green wood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" I shall as now, do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede,
To short my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need.
Oh, my sweet mother, before all other, for you have I most drede ;
But now adieu! I must ensue where fortune doth me lead;
All this make ye; now let us flee, the day comes fast upon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" Nay, nay, not so, ye shall not go, and I shall tell you why:
Your appetite is to be light of love, I well espy;
For like as ye have said to me, in like wise hardely,
Ye would answere who so ever it were, in way of company.
It is said of old, soon hot soon cold, and so is a woman.
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banish'd man."
" If ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me,
For oft ye pray'd, and long essay'd, or I you loved, perdie;
And though that I of ancestry a baron's daughter be,
Yet have you proved how I you loved, a squire of low degree,
And ever shall, whatso befall, to die therefore anon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
"A baron's child to be beguiled, it were a cursed deed;
To be fellow with an outlaw, Almighty God forbid :
Yet better were, the poor squier alone to forest yede,*
Than ye shall say, another day, that by my wicked deed
Ye were betray'd ; wherefore, good maid, the best rede that I can
Is that I to the greenwood go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Whatever befall, I never shall of this thing you upbraid,
But if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betray'd ;
Remember you well, how that ye deal, for if ye, as ye said,
Be so unkind, to leave behind your love, the Nut-Brown Maid,
• Went
ANONYMOUS,] THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 559
Trust me truly that I die soon after ye be gone,
For, in ray mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" If that ye went ye should repent, for in the forest now
I have purvey'd me of a maid, whom I love more than you.
Another fairer than ever ye were, I dare it well avow ;
And of you both, each should be wroth with other, as I trow
It were mine ease to live in peace ; so will I if I can ;
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banish'd man."
" Though in the wood I understood ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought, but that I will be your ;
And she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour,
Glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power,
For had ye loo* an hundred mo, yet would I be that one ;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" Mine own dear love, I see the proof that ye be kind and true:
Of maid and wife, in all my life, the best that ever I knew.
Be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changed new ;
For it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue,
Be not dismay' d, whatsoever I said to you when I began,
I will not to the greenwood go, I am no banish'd man."
"These tidings be more glad to me than to be made a queen,
If I were sure they should endure : but it is often seen,
When men will break promise, they speak the wordes on the
spleen :
Ye shape some wile, me to beguile, and steal from me, I ween ;
Then were the case worse than it was, and I more woe-begone ;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
" Ye shall not need further ,to drede, I will not disparage
You, God defend, sith you descend of so great a lineage:
Now understand ; to Westmoreland, which is my heritage,
I will you bring, and with a ring, by way of marriage,
I will ye take, and lady make, as shortly as I can :
Thus have ye won an carle's son, and not a banish'd man."
* Loved.
560 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOH.
Here may ye see, that women be, in love, meek, kind, and stable,
Let never man reprove them then, or call them variable ;
But rather pray God that we may to them be comfortable,
Which sometime proveth such as loveth, if they be charitable :
For sith men would that women should be meek to them each one,
Much more ought they to God obey, and serve but Him alone.
90.— Sir gjtoflw fa «0frtrl*ff.— 4.
ADDISON.
WE give the " Spectator," No. 335, without abridgment. It is by Addison.
" My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together
at the club, told me that he had a great mind to see the new
tragedy (' The Distressed Mother ') with me, assuring me at the
same time that he had not been at a play these twenty years.
'The last I saw/ said Sir Roger, 'was the Committee, which I
should not have gone to neither had not I been told beforehand
that it was a good Church of England comedy.' He then pro-
ceeded to inquire of me who this distressed mother was ; and
upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her
husband was a brave man, and that when he was a schoolboy he
had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked
me in the next place if there would not be some danger in com-
ing home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. 'I assure
you,' says he, ' I thought I had fallen into their hands last night ;
for I observed two or three lusty black men that followed me
halfway up Fleet Street, and mended their pace behind me in
proportion as I put on to get away from them. You must know/
continued the knight with a smile, * I fancied they had a mind to
hunt me ; for I remember an honest gentleman in my neighbour-
hood who was served such a trick in King Charles the Second's
time, for which reason he has not ventured himself in town ever
since. I might have shown them very good sport had this been
their design ; for, as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have turned
ADDISON.] SJX ROGER DE COVERLEY* 561
and dodged, and have played them a thousand tricks they had
never seen in their lives before.' Sir Roger added, that 'if these
gentlemen had any such intention, they did not succeed very well
in it ; for I threw them out,' says he, 'at the end of Norfolk Street,
where I doubled the corner, and got shelter in my lodgings before
they could imagine what was become of me. However,' says the
knight, 'if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night,
and you will both of you call upon me about four o'clock, that
we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my own coach
in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-
wheels mended.'
" The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the ap-
pointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on
the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk.
Sir Roger's servants, and among the rest my old friend the butler,
had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants, to
attend their master upon this occasion. When we had placed
him in his coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain before
him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we
conveyed him in safety to the playhouse, where, after having
marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I went in
with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the
house was full and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up
and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned
with humanity naturally feels in itself at the sight of a multitude
of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of the
same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself,
as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a
very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of
Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not believe the king of
France himself had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive
to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a
piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him at the
conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not
imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared very
much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after as
VOL. i. 2 N
562 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON.
much for Hermione ; and was extremely puzzled to think what
would become of Pyrrhus.
" When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her
lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was
sure she would never have him ; to which he added, with a more
than ordinary vehemence, ' You can't imagine, Sir, what it is to
have to do with a widow/ Upon Pyrrhus's threatening to leave
her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, ' Ay, do
if you can.' This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagina-
tion, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking on some-
thing else, he whispered me in my ear, ' These widows, Sir, are
the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray/ says he,
* you that are a critic, is the play according to your dramatic
rules, as you call them ? Should your people in tragedy always
talk to be understood ? Why, there is not a single sentence in
this play that I do not know the meaning of.
" The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give
the old gentleman an answer. 'Well,' says the knight, sitting
down with great satisfaction, ' I suppose we are now to see Hec-
tor's ghost.' He then renewed his attention, and, from time to
time, fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mis-
take as to one of her pages, whom, at his first entering, he took
for Astyanax; but quickly set himself right in that particular,
though, at the same time, he owned he should have been glad to
have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine
child by the account that is given of him. Upon Hermione's
going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud
clap, to which Sir Roger added, ' On my word, a notable young
baggage.'
" As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audi-
ence during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the op-
portunity of the intervals between the acts to express their opinion
of the players and of their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing
a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told
them that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man.
As they were afterward applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a
ADDISON.] SIX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 563
second time : ' And let me tell you,* says he, ' though he speaks
but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.'
Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags, who sat near us lean
with an attentive ear toward Sir Roger, and fearing lest they
should smoke the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whis-
pered something in his ear that lasted till the opening of the fifth
act. The knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which
Orestes gives of Pyrrhus's death, and, at the conclusion of it, told
me it was such a bloody piece of work that he was glad it was
not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his rav-
ing fit, he grew more than ordinarily serious, and took occasion
to moralise (in his way) upon an evil conscience, adding, that
Orestes in his madness looked as if he saw something.
" As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the
last that went out of it, being resolved to have a clear passage for
our old friend, whom we did not care to venture among the just-
ling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his
entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodging in the same
manner that we brought him to the playhouse, being highly
pleased, for my own part, not only with the performance of the
excellent piece which had been presented, but with the satisfac-
tion which it had given to the good old man."
The following is from the "Spectator," No. 383, by Addison : —
"As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a subject
for my next ' Spectator,' I heard two or three irregular bounces
at my landlady's door ; and, upon the opening of it, a loud cheer-
ful voice inquiring whether the philosopher was at home. The
child who went to the door answered, very innocently, that he
did not lodge there. I immediately recollected that it was my
good friend Sir Roger's voice, and that I had promised to go
with him on the water to Spring Garden (Vauxhall) in case it
proved a good evening. The knight put me in mind of my pro-
mise from the bottom of the staircase, but told me that if I was
speculating, he would stay below until I had done. Upon my
coming down, I found all the children of the family got about
my old friend ; and my landlady herself, who is a notable prating
564 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOX.
gossip, engaged in a conference with him ; being mightily pleased
with his stroking her little boy on the head, and bidding him to
be a good child and mind his book.
"We were no sooner come to the Temple Stairs, but we were
surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering us their respective
services. Sir Roger, after having looked about him very atten-
tively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately gave him
orders to get his boat ready. As we were walking towards it,
* You must know/ says Sir Roger, * I never make use of anybody
to row me that has not lost either a leg or an arm. I would
rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than not employ an honest
man that has been wounded in the queen's service. If I was
a lord or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would not put a fellow in
my livery that had not a wooden leg.'
" My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed the
boat with his coachman, who being a very sober man, always
serves for ballast on these occasions, we made the best of our way
for Vauxhall. Sir Roger obliged the waterman to give us the
history of his right leg ; and, hearing that he had left it at La
Hogue, with many particulars which passed in that glorious action,
the knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several reflections
on the greatness of the British nation ; as, that one Englishman
could beat three Frenchmen ; that we could never be in danger
of Popery so long as we took care of our fleet ; that the Thames
was the noblest river in Europe; that London Bridge was a greater
piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the world ; with
many other honest prejudices which naturally cleave to the heart
of a true Englishman.
"After some short pause, the old knight, turning about his
head twice or thrice to take a survey of this great metropolis, bid
me observe how thick the city was set with churches, and that
there was scarce a single steeple on this side Temple Bar. * A
most heathenish sight!' says Sir Roger: 'there is no religion at
this end of the town. The fifty new churches will very much
mend the prospect ; but church work is slow, church work is
slow.'
ADDISON.] SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 565
" I do not remember I have anywhere mentioned in Sir
Roger's character his custom of saluting everybody that passes
by him with a Good-morrow or a Good-night. This the old man
does out of the overflowings of his humanity; though, at the
same time, it renders him so popular among his country neigh-
bours, that it is thought to have gone a good way in making him
once or twice knight of the shire. He cannot forbear this exer-
cise of benevolence even in town when he meets with any one in
his morning or evening walk. It broke from him to several boats
that passed by us upon the water ; but, to the knight's great sur-
prise, as he gave the Good-night to two or three young fellows a
little before our landing, one of them, instead of returning the
civility, asked us what queer old put we had in the boat, with a
great deal of the like Thames ribaldry. Sir Roger seemed a little
shocked at first ; but at length, assuming a face of magistracy,
told us that, if he were a Middlesex justice he would make such
vagrants know that her Majesty's subjects were no more to be
abused by water than by land.
" We were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is excellently
pleasant at this time of the year. When I considered the fra-
grance of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung
upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under
their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind of
Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put him in mind of a
little coppice by his house in the country, which his chaplain
used to call an aviary of nightingales.
" ' You must understand,' says the knight, ' there is nothing in
the world that pleases a man in love so much as your nightingale.
Ah, Mr Spectator, the many moonlight nights that I have walked
by myself, and thought on the widow by the music of the nightin-
gale!'
" We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale and a
slice of hung beef. When we had done eating ourselves the
knight called a waiter to him, and bid him carry the remainder to
the waterman that had but one leg. I perceived the fellow stared
upon him at the oddness of the message, and was going to be
566 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISOW.
saucy ; upon which I ratified the knight's commands with a per-
emptory look."
We now conclude this series of papers. The account of the death of Sir
Roger is in Addison's best style. It is said that he killed his good knight to
prevent others misrepresenting his actions and character. It certainly was not
easy to preserve the true balance between our amusement at the eccentricities
of his hero and our love for his goodness, as Addison alone has preserved it.
Steele vulgarised Sir Roger.
" We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which
very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my
readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep
them no longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead ! He
departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks'
sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his cor-
respondents in those parts, that informs him that the old man
caught a cold at the county sessions, as he was very warmly pro-
moting an address of his own penning, in which he succeeded
according to his wishes. But this particular comes from a Whig
justice of peace, who was always Sir Roger's enemy and antago
nist. I have letters both from the chaplain and Captain Sentry
which mention nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars
to the honour of the good old man. I have likewise a letter
from the butler, who took so much care of me last summer when
I was at the knight's house. As my friend the butler mentions,
in the simplicity of his heart, several circumstances the others
have passed over in silence, I shall give my readers a copy of his
letter, without any alteration or diminution.
" l HONOURED SIR, — Knowing that you was my old master's
good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news
of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as well as his
poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our
lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county sessions,
where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman
and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neigh-
bouring gentleman ; for you know, Sir, my good master was always
ADDISON.] SIX ROGER DE COVERLEY. 567
the poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first com-
plaint he made was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not
being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up according to
custom ; and you know he* used to take great delight in it. From
that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good
heart to the last. Indeed we were once in great hopes of his re-
covery, upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady
whom he had made love to the last forty years of his life; but
this only proved a lightning before death. He has bequeathed to
this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace and a
couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my
good old lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white geld-
ing that he used to ride a hunting upon to his chaplain, because he
thought he would be kind to him ; and has left you all his books.
He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tene-
ment with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when
he made his will, he left for mourning to every man in the parish
a great frieze coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. It
was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his poor ser-
vants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able
to speak a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown gray-
headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pensions and
legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining
part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity,
which is not yet come to my knowledge ; and it is peremptorily
said in the parish, that he has left money to build a steeple to the
church : for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived
two years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it.
The chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end,
and never speaks of him without tears. He was buried, accord-
ing to his own directions, among the family of the Coverleys, on
the left hand of his father, Sir Arthur. The coffin was carried by
six of his tenants, and the pall held up by six of the quorum.
The whole parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in
their mourning suits ; the men in frieze, and the women in riding-
hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's nephew, has taken posses-
568 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Aubisow.
sion of the Hall-house and the whole estate. When my old mas-
ter saw him a little before his death, he shook him by the hand,
and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring
him only to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies
and the gifts of charity, which he told him he had left as quit-
rents upon the estate. The Captain truly seems a courteous man,
though he says but little. He makes much of those whom. my
master loved, and shows great kindness to the old house-dog
that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have
gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature
made on the day of my master's death. He has never enjoyed
himself since ; no more has any of us. It was the melancholies!
day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcestershire.
This being all from, honoured Sir, your most sorrowful servant,
" ' EDWARD BISCUIT.
" ' P.S. — My master desired some weeks before he died, that a
book, which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to
Sir Andrew Freeport in his name.'
" This letter, notwithstanding the poor butlers manner of writ-
ing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the
reading of it there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew,
opening the book, found it to be a collection of acts of parlia-
ment. There was in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some
passages in it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew
found that they related to two or three points which he had dis-
puted with Sir Roger, the last time he appeared at the club. Sir
Andrew, who would have been merry at such an incident on
another occasion, at the sight of the old man's handwriting burst
into tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain Sentry
informs me that the knight had left rings and mourning for every
one in the club."
END OF VOL. I.
Printed by Ballantyne, Roberts, &> Company, Edinburgh.
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1866
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